


Ending

by Iknowthebattle



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Bisexuality, Break Up, Closeted Character, Coming Out, F/M, Future Fic, Heavy Angst, M/M, Multi, Parent-Child Relationship, RPF, time jumps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-05-03 21:50:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14578407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iknowthebattle/pseuds/Iknowthebattle
Summary: Tim and Armie end their years long relationship.This story moves backwards and forwards and skips around in time as it progresses, coming full circle at its conclusion.We Begin at the End.





	1. Torero

**_3 years from now 2021_ **

**_New York, New York_ **

Tim sat with his back to the wall, clammy hands and bare feet flat on the aging, hardwood floors. He knew exactly where they would creak and moan with a step or drunken fumble. But there were no noises today. He hadn’t moved for hours.

He re-played all of the conversations from the last few hours in his head until they became almost like a song, one you put on repeat until you wonder why you loved it in the first place. Like saying the same word over and over again until it started to make no sense.

_Vacation. Holiday. Family time._

_Torn between two worlds._

_I’ll never feel the same way about anyone, I think you know that._

_Guess this isn’t your home anymore._

_Guess not. For now._

_Guess you want me to wait for you? To follow your every move?_

_No one ever asked you to do that. Then or now._

_No, you didn’t have to ask. I just did._

_Come here._

_I don’t think so._

_What about my things?_

_What about them? You know how to tape a box._

_And my mail?_

_Why do you care? You never look at it anyway._

_You can’t pretend I was never here._

_Watch me. I have a lot of years to erase you, to erase this._

_Jesus, Timmy._

_Good luck with everything. Good luck with parents you hate and a wife you don’t even know anymore, good luck with movies no one wants to see but the women and men who want to fuck you._

_Stop. This isn’t you._

_No, it isn’t._

_So why now? Just to hurt me?_

_You’re not allowed to ask any questions. I thought we established that._

_We established a lot of things._

_We did, didn’t we? But I guess without a ring and kids and I don’t know, I guess guilt?  I didn’t stand a chance._

_Guilt? I’ve felt plenty of guilt._

_But not the right kind._

_I don’t even know what that means._

_Me neither._

_We’ve lost the thread of this conversation._

_No, we haven’t. You’re leaving and that’s the whole conversation._

_But it’s not for good._

_I don’t even know what that means._

_I know this isn’t easy._

_Understatement of the fucking century._

_But like you said, you have a lot of years ahead of you…._

_Oh my god, is that supposed to make me feel better? Knowing I can fuck my pain away because I’ll be young for another ten years?_

_Am I wrong?_

_Oh my god. Oh my god. You so don’t get it._

_No, that’s where you’re wrong. I do get it. And I can see what I need right now is to give the other part of my life the attention it needs._

_The other part of your life? What about the other part of my life? My family? My friends?_

_You’ve always had them. You haven’t had to give up anything to be…with me._

_No, you’re right. Because I’ve always just…let you in. You were a part of my life too._

_See? Another reason I feel guilty._

_Good. I’ll take whatever shitty feeling I can get._

_Does that make it feel better? Like we’re even?_

_Right now it does. I can’t think past right now._

_You know this was wonderful….this **is** wonderful. _

_Don’t fuck with present tense. It’s all in the past._

_Jesus, don’t say that._

_You’re making an awful lot of demands for someone who isn’t giving me a whole lot of options._

_I know. I’m sorry._

_You keep saying that but I’m not sure you understand what it means, if it means anything._

_I’m saying, I jumped from one boat to another and now I’m drowning._

_Because, what? Too many people love you?_

_Because I can’t have you the way I want you **and** I can’t be enough for Elizabeth. I can’t have you both at the same time; I think we’ve already established that. _

_Yeah, but you sure did try._

_And I’m trying still. This is just…a few weeks._

_What? Is she pregnant? I know you came close…_

_What? Are you fucking serious with this shit right now? I haven’t slept with her since we’ve been together._

Armie was motioning between himself and Timmy violently. We. Together. Ever Since.

_She always wanted a third…_

_Is that what you think this is about? Me running to LA to knock up my ex-wife?_

Tim sat down his wine glass, surprised how steady it was given the fact that his hands were shaking.

_I guess this is what you have to do._

_I have to try to make sense of the two halves of my life. Jesus, we’re not even divorced._

_I’m aware._

_I’ll be 35 soon._

_I know that too._

Armie looked like he wanted to punch a hole in the wall and cry all at once.

_Sucks for you, doesn’t it?_

_What? What sucks for me?_

_That you can’t just brush me off because I don’t understand. Because I’m younger. Because my parents are still together. No, you can’t pull that card because we’re in the ring together._

_I’m not here to fight you._

_No. I mean, I fought the world **with** you, Armie, by your side. Now I **do** know what it’s like. I do understand. The thing is, now I’m not sure you do. _

Tim was older in that moment than if you added up all the moments of pain and realization from his life and multiplied them by a thousand.

_I’m not sure I do either._

He had spent half that morning on the floor, not leaving his spot after the door had finally closed; a bag over Armie’s shoulder and a miserable smile.

Tim had refused to look at him. He had chosen to focus on the bay windows that faced the street. In front of the windows is where their couch sat, where they had spent hours playing video games, watching documentaries, kissing, fucking, eating take out, sleeping when the bed seemed too far, his head in Armie’s lap, Armie sleeping up-right because he could sleep anywhere.

The persistent sun was the only way he could be sure that time kept moving forward. It came through the blinds which he kept closed. The hiss of the radiator sounded like a snake working its way through the floor, the walls.

It was too late in the year for the heater to kick on.

Tim sometimes imagined the world ending before he died, in fire or ice. Maybe global warming really would kill everyone. If Trump didn’t get there first.

 He had always been a hopeful fatalist cloaked in the finest leather and furs of an optimist. It was his energy that fooled people. He found out if you bounced around a room enough, laughing and being curious, that everyone looked to you for energy, to replenish, to refill their bucket from your, from his well.

He had been happy to quench Armie’s thirst for years now, never letting him run dry.

 At first it was timid, every now and then, then it was often, then all the time, then not at all, then again when they, when Armie, could get away, then they were together non-stop and it was non-stop too, then they dove in without question, moving in, buying a place in New York together, and now it was this, Tim was alone, with some half-assed promise of being together again after some time passed.

_But you already made your choices. Why go back now?_

_I don’t know. I know it’s stupid but I…want everything. I want you, I want the kids…I want…some sort of stability._

_You could have had all of that. You had all of that. Just not the way you were brought up to understand it. It doesn’t fit into some fucked up box you want it to fit into._

_I don’t know how to be alone. I don’t know how handle anyone important in my life being angry with me._

And there it was.

Tim expected a text, an email in the coming weeks asking for some type of reunion, a coming to terms over alcohol, Armie’s drug of choice in socially acceptable circles.

Tim knew he would go. He hated himself for it already. He had pretended to be strong, to hold his own, in his city, telling Armie to go, do what he thought was best, knowing he would regret it. But already he was imagining the meeting, either here or in some quiet, dark place buried so far uptown that no one would find them.

Now he sat, back against a wall they had painted a deep turquoise, a color that had reminded Armie of the ocean floor in the Cayman Islands. Tim had wanted to ask how he had gotten down that far down without needing to come up for air.

The kitchen and dining room were yellow, the bedroom a pale blue, the second bedroom, which was really just filled with shit like a desk and books they had never read or would never read again so it pretended to be an office, and some work out equipment was still stark white, left that way to show how little the room mattered. They wouldn’t have to re-paint it when they, when Tim moved out.

Harper and Ford slept in the living room when they slept over, the couch pulled out; Ford’s crib stored in the hallway closet from when he was a baby, brought out and set up in their bedroom on Armie’s side of the bed until he was old enough to share the couch bed with Harper.

No need to use the second bedroom for a while, Harper was still young enough to not care about privacy; in fact she loved sleeping in the living room because it was closer to the kitchen where she could get cookies and juice with a simple climb up the bar stool or the bat of her eye lashes at either her Father or uncle Timmy. Ford was learning quickly and following suit.

Tim let his eyes wander over to the kitchen now, a greasy, half-empty pizza box sitting on the counter, two empty wine glasses, and a half-burned down white vanilla candle, its thick, dried wax stuck to the marble counter top. He could easily peel it off with his longer than normal fingernails, leaving the remnants there for the days, annoying Armie to no end.

 There was every sign there had been two of them there. One of the four stools at the counter was pulled out, when Timmy had sat down, thinking they were going to have a proper dinner in the kitchen for once. Then Armie said they needed to talk and the entire world inside and outside of the apartment exploded and landed in charred bits around him.

He had crawled out of the debris to sit where he was now, wounded and fallen, but not fatal.

His cell phone sat inches away from his hands and feet. He pretended that because it was face down it meant he did not have to look at it. He knew that it could go off, be semi-alive on its own without his fingers. He pretended that if he could not see the screen come to life that it wasn’t really happening at all.

Out of sight, out of mind, out of reach.  

Maybe he’d throw it in the Hudson, but he knew he was far too lazy and co-dependent on the device for such a grand, dramatic gesture.

There had been the ceremonial packing of things which were Armie’s, happening slowly and yet at all at once before Tim had a moment to think, to process. He hadn’t dared to help him, despite every bone and muscle in his body wanting to make any part of this easier; he was so used to being on auto-pilot in order to make Armie’s life easier however he could.

 It was muscle memory by this point. It was all he knew. The life he led, the life he held before Armie, stretched out long ago and far back, like Roman roads, invented long ago, and useful at one point but no longer needed in order to see the enemy coming. The technologies had been updated, highways had been built to speed progress along, to keep things moving.

He coasted on these modern-day streets now, sometimes on cruise control, but wanting to slam on the brakes, stop everything, even it meant a head on collision.

Tim was fully aware of what was headed his way, what intersections to avoid, what red, yellow and green meant as warning and welcoming signs.

Still he sat idle now, waiting for something, anything to happen. Maybe Armie to burst through the door. Maybe the phone to vibrate so hard it would shake the floor beneath. Maybe the entire apartment to collapse in on his head. Maybe he would drink so much that soon none of this would matter. There was plenty of poison left behind, in medicine cabinets and wine cellars and food cupboards that instead of bread and spices were filled with whiskey and gin and bitters.

But no, that was not it.

He was not self-destructive in that way. He found it simple, basic. He did not want to die. He wanted to feel the pain that sped through his veins, over riding every other natural, biological feeling. He was fully aware of his own survival instinct and the power of it. It had saved him many times.

Get through today. Feet on the floor. Shower. Show up. Somedays food was enough. He remembered those days, those months, those years with the opposite of fondness, but more like a chemical compound bound into the deepest parts of his DNA, unwillingly. The darkness he had learned to see as his partner, not his enemy. It was useless to pretend otherwise.

His mind ran like a wild fire, picking and burning up all things beautiful and plentiful, trees and flowers, lavender, grass, homes---he thought of nothing but destruction but not for himself, not yet. He thought of the bigger picture, the larger world, and how everyone was fucked. It was almost a relief to know he was not alone in his misery, in his fatality.

The couch was still pulled out where Harper had slept a few nights before. They had never bothered to put it back together again. Tim stared at the simplicity, the innocence of the scene on the other side of the room. It was her place of rest, of peace, in their shared home.

He thought of Ford’s crib tucked away and how he slept in it even when he was too old, he thought about the closet full of toys and mismatched socks. He thought of someone, himself, as some sort of uncle, misplaced step-dad, second dad, fun friend, closer to them in age than either of their parents.

Tim knew it was crazy, knew it was insane, knew he would never speak it aloud but he saw Ford as his in a twisted, visceral way, like he was his child.

Armie had Harper, but Tim claimed Ford. Of course he loved both of them but Ford; he was born out of a new type of love, born from a new person, Armie, who Tim was directly, forever connected to.

The shift in Armie’s core happened while in Crema and Tim wanted to be part of his little life forever. He wanted to help raise him, to take him back there maybe when he was a little bit older, maybe as a teenager, a mini-Armie.

Harper was already self-assured, stubborn, and strong. But Ford walked around, over-friendly to strangers, looking lost or amazed all of the time and had ever since he was old enough to crawl. Tim sometimes scooped him up, pretending he had given him life from the six weeks of life he and Armie had created in Italy, in a tiny, nowhere town and here was the result.

Celluloid and a life.

Tim would sometimes put Ford on his hip or his shoulder and coo and pretend he and Armie had made him, physical proof of their bond that existed outside of pictures and sounds.

They had made so much between now and then.

His phone vibrated on the floor.

Tim stared at it, watching it move just slightly.

The entire conversation the night before had taken only minutes, maybe hours, now lost to the record books forever. That’s why it didn’t feel real, not yet. It hadn’t taken long enough to really end. Weren’t these things drawn out forever? Didn’t people stop speaking for weeks, months, years before admitting something was wrong? Didn’t they go to counseling or something?

He searched his mind for memories of his friend’s parents getting divorced, his only frame of reference, still close enough to him in his recent history to bring up, but that didn’t make sense either.

Maybe because for so long their lives together had meant coming and going that this going did not seem final, did not seem like the last.

The phone was vibrating again. It seemed angrier, louder this time.

Tim reached his foot over to slide, to bring the phone towards him. He flipped it over with the backs of his fingers.

Pauline. Twice.

Probably just their usual Saturday evening phone call, but maybe she knew. She always knew.

He turned the phone on silent, putting it on its face again and put the back of his head against the wall, closed his eyes.

He imagined how other people grieved when things end, hysterical women, angry men, possessive, jealous, the whole roster of human emotions and reactions, offense, defense.

There was so much he was trying to dig up from other people’s pasts, experiences, like a communal grave digger, so eager he was to ignore his own demons and past troubles, his own bones buried closely to the surface.

He pictured Armie in the car on the way to the airport, JFK, he knew which terminal he would be in for his flight to LA, he knew which bar he would likely stop in for a drink (or 4.) He knew he would watch mindless movies the whole flight, shoes off, maybe falling asleep but hopefully looking out of the window and thinking.

Hopefully he was hurting, replaying every word that was said to make sure they made sense or to hate his self for saying them.

This would be fine, right? It could work; he could go back to the way things used to be, couldn’t they? They didn’t always own a New York co-op apartment together. They didn’t always travel together for fun and not work. They didn’t always split grocery shopping and kid watching duties right?

They had done all of this for two years, but not done it just as easily for two years before that.

Tim had never done any of that before Armie. He was 25. Armie was an old 34.

Why had Armie always seemed older? He always seemed to Tim to be about 45….maybe because he had checked off so many things on the adult list; marriage, kids, career, money. But then at times he seemed a child himself, unable to control his moods or hide his feelings in a room full of strangers or familiars.

Now Tim felt much older, outside and in. He had been carting around someone else’s life for a long time until finally they shared a life together. In that equal footing he found peace and happiness that replaced lust, desire, the mystery of what if and maybe and stolen weekends under the excuse of work.

He had found himself content with routine, with having what he had watched Armie have for so long. But now the wires had been crossed and the cables stopped. The messages were all garbled and mixed, no longer clear.

Tim had to find and create his own routine, when most people his age had gotten so much wild shit out of their system by now, he had been playing house, but it had all been real. He had been working and isolated with his tribe, his _brood_ , as Saoirse lovingly called it.

After the first year of living together, there had been no more secrets. They just simply couldn’t do it anymore. They didn’t have the energy. Neither had ever wanted to hide in the first place, Armie’s impatience and temper always threatened to reveal the truth. Tim’s lack of understanding why it was wrong to love the way they did never seemed to leave his face when he was out in public.

Now what had all that work, all that effort been for? _Now_ what would people say? Tim didn’t care, but fuck if the thought didn’t cross his mind, darting in and out in the most vain and shallow parts of himself. He wondered himself what it had all been for, his emotions racing to the finish line before Armie’s plane ever took off.

He was already trying to make sense of a conflict that had only begun, trying to catalog it in his history books with names, dates and places before blood had dried on the battlefield.

Tim touched his own chest with his knuckles, a feather light fist trying to feel where his actual heart sat, to check that it was steady, but of course it was. It kept beating regardless. He scrunched his toes up on the floor and felt his body lean to the left, his shoulder touching down on the cool hard wood floor below.

He realized he was lying on the floor and that the sun had gone down. He could feel the bass coming from the movie playing below in their neighbor’s apartment on his ear. 

Tim relaxed his fist and reached his arm out, spreading his fingers onto the floor to let his entire body feel the vibration, a mini earthquake for the bones, for the soul. He slowly turned to face the wall instead of the door, a ballet floor move, long limbs moving as if under water, done in such slow motion it seemed intentionally grateful, majestic. 

It was the dance of the miserable, the grief stricken.  

Tim could hear the movie below now, words, not just sound waves. 

The sound of unruly, tortured, domestic beasts, shrill screams, French and Spanish tongues. He recognized it after a few seconds. 

_The Sun Also Rises._

 


	2. Road Map

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2;  
> Fall 2019.  
> New York, New York.  
> Timmy/Armie.

**_Fall; 2019_ **

Tim rubs the underside of his wrist with three fingers, lying on his back in bed. It’s still early and the room is still, but he is examining the new addition to his body using the weak morning light. It’s red and raised around the edge of each number and letter and it itches, just like he was told it would.

But there it is, in fresh black ink, loud on his ivory skin, a proclamation.

_34.0195° N, 118.4912° W_

The coordinates to Santa Monica, California, Armie’s birth place. He could have gotten the coordinates to anywhere put on him, could have used so many places to mark his love map, Crema, Grand Cayman, all of Texas. But no, he wanted this. He wanted the place where Armie first came into the world.

 All of the places that were Armie were sun-loved.

Tim pulled back the covers a bit to look at the sleeping body next to him. Armie was laying on his side, facing Timmy, his arm at half-mast above his head propped up by his pillow so Timmy could see his tattoo in the grey light.

_40.7128° N, 74.0060° W_

The coordinates to New York City, Tim’s birth place, Tim’s heart and soul. A place he had been born, re-born, lost and found again. The place he had been cash poor and love rich.

Tim moved over just enough in bed to kiss the spot on Armie’s wrist where the new opposing tattoo sat, looking at home on his forever-tanned skin. Now he had both wrists branded, one with his family name, one with Tim’s numbers and letters, his new family.

Tim touched the angry looking script with the tips of his fingers. He let them linger there, the gentle touch causing Armie to open one eye.

“Do you ever sleep?” His was hoarse, a whisper.

Tim smiled, his upper lip sticking to his gum, the sound loud and soft all at once in the quiet bedroom, just a floor fan on low. Armie liked to sleep with the room cold.

Tim shook his head, curls freeing themselves from behind his ears with the motion.

“I just woke up.”  

Armie reached over, pulling him up against his chest, hip to hip, their feet touching far down under the covers.

“Mm. Not time to get up yet.”

Tim allowed himself to be pulled in, but kept his arm free so he could still see his new, his only tattoo. He looked at it in wonder, wanting to keep it close, a new parent pulling their baby into bed with them on the first night home.

Armie was already breathing softly again. He found sleep easy. Tim envied him.

Tim pulled the cover up over both of them, freezing as always, but content because Armie couldn’t sleep when he was hot and that meant room temperature for most people. Armie always ran hot. Tim could be found in layers on the beach.

He watched Armie sleep, his face relaxed. He knew he was not going back to sleep, his mind was awake now.

 He flashed back to last night, a last minute decision by Armie to drag him into a tattoo parlor on the Lower East Side after a long night of drinks and dinner after an even longer night of being on stage. Sometimes Tim’s days felt 100 hours long.

Armie had been waiting backstage after seeing the show, fanning himself slowly with _The Inheritance_ Playbill, leaning up against the old brick wall, one ankle crossed over the other. The cords and wires for the curtain and lights were on either of him, almost tying him in place, suspending him in mid-air.

Tim was hugging the stage manager and cast members, but caught Armie’s eye over their shoulders and smiled his for-Armie-only smile; big and wide, all gums, teeth and a half-open mouth, still in shock because there he was.

Armie waited for Tim to be free and he watched as Tim jogged over, standing in front of him waiting for something to happen it seemed.

Armie smirked. “Isn’t it bad luck for the audience to see you before you’ve changed out of costume after curtain call?”  

Tim laughed, thin, bony hand and wrist on his stomach, then both hands on his hips, proud, in his element, comfortable. He shrugged, endless shoulders broadening some with age.

“My clothes look pretty much the same.”

Armie was still smirking when he hit Tim in the stomach lightly with the Playbill.

“You were incredible.”

Tim hung his head, and then lifted his gaze slowly, looking at Armie through his hair, his lashes, wanting his actual thoughts, real approval.

“You really think so?”

Armie rolled his eyes, but pulled Tim into him, holding him loose at the hips, fingers spread across bone.

“Of course I do. I’m sorry I couldn’t come to opening night-“

Tim shook his head. “Never come to opening night. We hit our stride this week.”

Armie was smiling, looking down at him.

“Don’t peak too soon,” Armie warned softly.

Tim laughed, leaning in, putting his mouth against Armie’s shoulder, lips and teeth against the fabric of his dress shirt.

“If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that…”

“Or said it about yourself,” Armie teased against the top of his head.

“Hey Timothee—“ A random crew member appeared, their headset still on, dressed all in black and stopped talking, stopped walking, at the sight in front of her.

Tim and Armie broke apart quickly and Tim turned around on one heel, hand pushed through his hair, eyebrows raised.

“Hey what’s up?”

“I um…just wanted to make sure you had returned all of your props to the prop master….” The sentence fell out of her mouth and into nowhere in the empty backstage.

Tim nodded. “I did, I did. Thanks for checking.”

“Great.” She gave an awkward thumbs-up and scurried away.

Tim and Armie watched her go, Tim turning on his heel again to face Armie and they both burst out laughing, Tim falling into Armie, where he caught him by the elbows.

Armie pulled back, his whole body against the backstage wall, still laughing, still holding onto Tim.

“Jesus Christ,” he heaved through his laughs, Tim nodding, understanding, and falling back into him.

“Cause that’s not a cliché, a stage hand seeing one of the actors practically dry humping his boyfriend backstage.”

Tim’s smile grew even wider against Armie’s shoulder, then his neck, warm to the tips of his toes and the tops of his ears at the word. He mouthed _boyfriend_ against Armie’s neck, with no sound, just to feel it in between his lips, his teeth and tongue. He felt Armie smile and hit him on the ass with the Playbill.

“Come on, get changed. Let’s get outta here, Olivier.”

Tim without looking around reached up and gave Armie a peck on the lips.

“Come with me?” Tim reached down and tugged at Armie’s hand towards his dressing room.

Armie shook his head. “No, no. no. We’ll never get out of here if I go in there.”

Tim raised an eyebrow, now swinging their hands between them. “Chickening out?”

Armie rolled his head back so Tim had no choice but to stare at his neck.

“No, I’m just starving.”

Tim bit his lower lip, clearly in a mood, riding on the high of the play still; he walked up and nudged his hip against Armie’s.

“What ever happened to fuck first?”

Armie’s eyes narrowed, Tim’s face was distorted under the work lights, heavy stage make up lining his jaw line and eyes. He looked like a Greek statue, Aphrodite, not Eros, a Goddess, not a God.

“Tim…”

But Tim led him, long legs and shuffling feet toward the place he wanted to take him, the place he wanted Armie to take him. Tim felt Armie’s muscles go slack, letting himself be led.

Tim let Armie walk in first, and he walked in after, closing the door softly behind him. He stood with his full body against the door, head rolled to the side, looking at Armie who stood in the center of his private space, a couch, a mirror with vanity lights, a chair and a portable heater and a fan, Tim’s things in a bag in the corner.

Armie was looking Tim up and down.

“You know exactly what you’re doing.”

Tim nodded, hands in the pockets of his costume jeans, pulling the waist down low to show off his hip bones.

“You always do,” Armie’s voice was soft now.

Tim smiled, shy all of a sudden, but leaving his skin exposed, keeping his stance against the door, a full-fledged sex kitten.

Armie took two long steps over to where he stood, putting his hands on either side of Tim’s head, palms flat on the door.

“Is this what you want? Fuck first? Then what?”

Tim stretched his neck forward to nip at Armie’s bottom lip.

“Then you take me out, wine and dine me and tell me how good I was up there, how you couldn’t stand those boys touching me, holding me. Maybe you get me drunk, so you can have your way with me-“

Armie stifled a laugh, a smile.

“…And then…who knows? Maybe you’ll get lucky?”

“And what does that mean hmm? Lucky?” Armie had pushed his body against Tim’s now, bending down so they were forehead to forehead, hip to hip, toe to toe.

Tim looked up at him without moving.

“Maybe you can have me any way you want me.”

Armie shook his head, looking down at Tim. “No, I get that already.”

Tim smiled, one side of his mouth curving up around higher than the other. He grabbed Armie’s hips and shoved them against him as hard as he could.

“Lucky us.”

Armie had him any way he wanted him then, flipping him around to face the door, hurling himself into him against the door, on the couch, in front of the mirror, pulling Tim’s hair back, growling at him to watch, veins exposed on his pale neck and he did, an encore performance.

“I can’t believe you keep lube in your back pack, you horny son of a bitch,” Armie said against his mop of curls as he sat in the chair in front of the vanity, Tim in his lap, both of them looking at themselves in the mirror, naked from the waist down, stomachs rising and falling in sync, pleased, free. Tim’s long legs were hanging over Armie’s even longer limbs, the bottom of their feet dirty from the old floors.

“Well I never know with our schedules…” Tim attempted to make some weak excuse but Armie kissed his temple. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter.

“And I learned from you…” Tim’s voice tailed off.

Armie looked at their reflections in the mirror, confused.

“How’s that?”

Tim leaned his head back onto Armie’s shoulder. “You’re good at this stuff, always being prepared, you take care of people…I think it’s from having kids. You get mad or annoyed but…you end up taking care of shit when you need to.”

Tim couldn’t see Armie’s soft smile in the mirror.

“So my being a parent inspired you to keep lube with you at all times?”

Tim sat up and elbowed Armie in the arm, his curls sticking to the back of his head from lying against Armie for so long.

“Come on, let’s go for real. Now I’m starving.”

Tim tossed his costume clothes aside, changing into civilian clothes quickly

Armie, now dressed again, was looking at the vanity mirror, photos taped to the edges.

There were two photos of Tim and Pauline, one in Budapest, the other in Paris on one side. At the bottom were photos of Ford and Harper, and at the top was a photo of the two of them, in LA, the day he bought the Brentwood Country Mart hat with Elizabeth when they went shopping while Armie was at home, pouting about something or another, or hungover, it was one of the two he was sure.

 He fingered the edge of the photo softly. He knew Tim had taken the time to have photos from his phone printed, mailed to him or waited patiently while they printed in someone’s home or office, and then he had taped them carefully to this mirror, his preparation space, so much work for a child of the IPhone and Instagram era. Armie looked at their photo until Tim opened the door and paused.

“You ready Arms?”

They drank too much and ate too much, walking and then stumbling from one bar to another, little known places, and really packed, too well-known places, declining photos until they were good and drunk and then posing for anyone who wanted one, Tim still in his stage make up, half-worn off from the earlier fucking.

Many bottles of wine and whiskey led Armie to point bleary eyed down a street, his finger trying to lead Tim’s gaze to a neon green sign for a tattoo parlor.

Tim shook his head, curls everywhere. “No way, dude. We are too fucked up. They won’t.”

Armie was already walking toward the sign, calling over his shoulder. “I’m good at pretending I’m stone cold sober, watch.”

Tim ran to catch up to him, grabbing him by the back pockets of his pants.

“Wait, wait, wait…what the fuck?”

Armie turned to look at him.

“What?” His voice was full of mischief.

Tim motioned toward the tattoo parlor.

“What are you doing man? You already have a tattoo, or whatever.”

Armie laughed, letting the night air catch his amusement and hold it in the far away sky.

“People can have more than one tattoo, Timothee.”

Tim shoved Armie, the tips of his fingers numb from good wine.

“You know what I mean, Armie…”

Armie grabbed Tim’s hands, pulling him close.

“We’re both gonna get tattoos.”

Tim’s mouth was open, not in shock, but in wonder.

“What-how do you mean?”

Armie was nodding towards the tattoo parlor as if it was a road paved to Heaven or Oz, all in gold, wonder and reward waiting on the other side.

“I mean, let’s get tattoos, dummy”

Tim’s mouth was still open, now being led by Armie into the florescent bright lights and punk rock music filled parlor. He let Armie walk in first, saying _hey man what’s up,_ so casually to the people behind the counter, Tim pushing hair out of his eyes, wishing he had remembered to bring his baseball cap, his security blanket.

_What can we do for you?_

A book was slid across the counter and Armie was talking to the dude as if he had known him his whole life, flipping through the plastic pages while looking up every once in a while to nod and say _oh yeah? Oh fuck, man that’s crazy_ and laugh his social Armie laugh, a little bit of a cackle to let the person know he was amused.

_Shit, he was good at this._

Tim stood beside him, pointing at an interesting looking tattoo every once in a while. He stopped and touched Armie on the arm with one finger.

“Wait, do you even know what you want?”  He made sure his voice sounded even.

Armie shrugged.

“Sort of.” He nodded at the guy behind the counter.

“Got a spot right now?”

Tim swallowed hard.

“You’re doing it right now?”

Armie nodded. “Yep.”

“Like, right now?”

Tim was following him to the back, the room getting smaller as his vision narrowed to focus on the chair and the tools beside it, like Tim Burton designed a dentist’s lair.

Armie patted the chair beside him, motioning for Tim to sit.

Tim sat down quickly, used to responding to Armie. He watched as Armie conversed with the tattoo artist, his ears ringing. Armie was muttering so Tim couldn’t really hear him, just every other word. He clearly knew this song and dance well.

Tim could see Armie on his phone now, carefully studying the screen.

“Hey man, everything okay?” His voice sounded small, careful. His fingers itched for his own phone in his coat pocket.

Armie looked over at him. His face was covered with a sort of sedate joy.

“Fan-fucking-tastic.”  

Tim smiled, he felt better because Armie had this. Armie felt good. Whatever was about to happen, Armie knew it and had signed off on it. Tim sat back in his guest chair, relaxed.

The artist began cleaning the area Armie’s empty wrist, the two of them exchanging easy banter, instant, temporary friends.

Tim rolled his chair over for closer inspection, happy to have a front row view of Armie changing some part of him forever; it was a privilege, an honor. Anytime he looked at whatever he was about to get done, he would remember Tim had been there with him.

“What are you getting?” Tim asked watching the tattoo artist collect and load up his gun with ink. He couldn’t hold in his curiosity any longer.

“This won’t take long,” the guy told Armie who nodded, said, “Yep” and looked back at Tim.

“It’s a surprise.”

Tim made a face. “A surprise?”

Didn’t he get a say in this? He wasn’t sure how to ask that out loud, so he sat back instead and watched the scene before him unfold like a malformed, twisted fairy tale. There was going to be a painting on Armie’s skin, the first touch of the needle not bothering Armie one bit, not even a flinch as it touched down.

Tim was mesmerized. He watched the gun carefully, moving up and down and back and forth, and then looking up at Armie’s face. He was watching the needle go in and out and then he would look at Tim and return his smile.

“It doesn’t hurt?”

Armie shook his head. “Nah. I mean, a little, but I don’t care.”

Of course he didn’t.

The artist was done in no time and Tim’s brow was pinched together.

“Coordinates?” He asked, fully confused, still looking at Armie’s wrist.

“Mmm hmm.” Armie’s response was low in his chest.

“To where?”

“Why don’t you figure it out?” Armie’s voice was warm, resuming the last bits of conversation with his tattoo artist.

“How the hell am I supposed to do that?”

Armie looked at him like he had lost his mind. “Use your phone, Christopher Columbus.”

Tim blushed instantly, snatching his phone out and quickly typing in the numbers and letters.

He looked at Armie who was still talking.

New York City. His home.  The place he always returned to. His Holy Ground. He was a subway kid, a kid born out of arts and subsidized housing and here was the proof on Armie’s body. Why else would he have chosen it?  

He waited for Armie to finish talking and suddenly the two of them were alone. Tim wasn’t looking at him, but at his wrist where the coordinates now sat, drilled down into Armie’s skin and nerves.

“I….Armie….”

Armie sat still, quiet, not speaking, looking at his wrist and then at Tim.

“Did you find out what it means?”

Tim nodded, swallowing.

Tim wanted to stand up and scream in the middle of the tattoo parlor, screaming over the music, over the insanely loud lights. Not out of anger or sadness, but to release the feeling finally reached, finally felt as he received something he did not think he had any right to. He felt had crossed some sort of finish line. He felt like running around and yelling at anyone who would listen. He felt like jumping up and down until his feet and head hurt, until he broke the floor below him, causing an earthquake born out of joy.

Instead, he sat still, holding his phone between his hands, between his knees.

“Well? What do you think?” Armie was rubbed the spot right above where the new tattoo sat.

Tim nodded, as if agreeing with himself. He stood up and motioned to the guy who had just worked on Armie to come back.

“I want one too,” he told both the artist and Armie in one breath.

Armie didn’t seem surprised. Tim looked at him, eyes fogged over with alcohol and confessions that would have to wait until later.

“You did say we were doing this, right?” Tim wasn’t confirming so much as letting him know he knew Armie’s plan now.

Armie tilted his head up and nodded.

“I did say that.”

Armie stood up and Tim sat down, trading places seamlessly.

“What are you feeling like this evening?” The artist asked smiling, loading up his gun again.

Tim held up his phone. He had been typing as they switched seats.

“I want this.”

The guy nodded and Tim rolled up his sleeve, muscle memory from going to the doctor. It was all he had.

“Same spot as him?” He nodded to Armie who was taking a photo of Tim in the chair. Tim wanted to hate him for it, but how could he?

Tim nodded. “Yep, same spot.”

He lay back, focusing his eyes on the ceiling. He realized he had been holding his breath when he felt a light brush on his arm and he flinched.

“Hey, it’s just me.”

Armie was right beside him, looking down with buzzed blue eyes, his wrist now wrapped in see through tape. Tim strained to see it, to make sure it was still there.

“Wanna hold my hand?”

Tim wanted to say no, but he grabbed Armie’s hand with his own free hand as the needle made contact with his skin. He closed his eyes and he inhaled sharply, then opened his eyes wide as the needle kept going.

 _“Shittttttttttttttt……………..”_ the word lasted a long time followed by _fuuuuucccccckkkkk._ Now Armie had his other hand on his stomach.

“Breathe Tim, breathe.”

Tim nodded, inhaling and exhaling again and again, as deep as he could, eyes opening and closing and finally settling on Armie’s face.

“Is this how you coached Elizabeth through having Harper and Ford?”

Armie laughed.

“No, I was passed out on the floor by the time she dilated to 3.”

Tim laughed, careful not to jar his wrist.

He was still holding Armie’s hand when it was over, the area there now numb and no longer on fire. It taken less than ten minutes

“Not too bad huh?” The artist asked.

Tim shook his head. “Just the first few minutes. Then I got used to it.”

He looked down at the decision he had just made. He held it up for Armie to see.

“What do you think?”

Armie nodded.

“I think…” Armie looked at the guy putting away his tools, cleaning his gun and he rubbed Tim’s shoulder and then his arm.

“You know what I think.”

They were alone again soon and Armie leaned down, brushing a light kiss on Tim’s forehead.

“What should I say when people ask what it means?”   Tim couldn’t stop looking at it.

Armie stood up now, holding Tim’s hand, their fingers locked.

“The truth? That's my plan." 

Tim nodded, looking at his wrist until his vision went blurry with exhaustion, wine and affection. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who took a chance on this crazy idea and hopefully this was a balm for the last chapter. More good times to come as we hop around in time.  
> 


	3. Part of you pours out of me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of this was pushed along by a conversation with LivefromG25 who rambles on with me about A/T in a way I need in order to keep writing. So, thank you. xx 
> 
> A gentle reminder this is fiction.

**_Chapter 3_ **

**_Crema, Italy_ **

Long, lean legs slid out of the passenger’s side of the car, sneakers hitting the pavement with a soft thud.

The click of dress shoes got out, making soft step noises from the driver’s side, the doors locking shut with the press of a button and a beep.

The sun was hot, and the driver knew he was overdressed but he always was when he wasn’t sure what to wear, when he wanted to impress, even now.

His passenger was dressed casually, of course, in summer shorts, a shirt, socks, sneakers and a baseball cap, sunglasses that he had bought at the airport, his bag in the back seat of the rental.

This was his first stop. He came here alone, without his parents, but his Dad would be there the next day to meet him, his Mom the next week.

The driver had met him in Milan and driven to Crema, his mind and hands on the wheel in a type of internal auto-pilot that made him think he had born on Italian shores, or at least re-born, washed up and rescued like Moses in the basket.

Anyway, it was familiar. It was summer. It was Crema, and he had agreed to come here with him.

His passenger was going to back Milan that night, opting to spend only the afternoon and early evening in the tiny town. There was shopping to do in Milan, canals to explore in Venice, coliseums to wonder in Rome. He would be here for three weeks.

The only thing this place offered was a history that was so unknown few bothered to make the trek now but a personal history so wide and deep that it was a place he thought about more than he should, a second hometown but more than that.

 What was the word for this feeling? Was there one?

“So this is it, huh?”  He took off his baseball cap, wiping sweat from his brow, looking around, then back at his driver, a half-smile.

“This is a lot of it.”

“Will we go to the Villa?”

The driver shrugged, leaning up against the trunk of the car, unsure where to walk first, which direction, the streets all mapped out perfectly in his head but it was like deciding which piece of birthday cake to eat first. It’s your party and everyone’s watching.

He was glad he had kept his sunglasses on as he scanned the space around him, his eyes deep and hollow with a type of buried joy.

“Sure, we can. I thought we could walk around the town first, maybe go to the bookstore, or show you the apartments.”

A laugh rumbled out from under the baseball cap. Long gone were the leather baby dress shoes and monogrammed shirts. In their place were dirty knees and then dirty white t-shirts, but a still soft boy hid under the nearly-grown uniform.

“How old do you have to be to drink in Italy again?”

Another laugh, this time from his own lips.

“16. So you _just_ made it.”

Ford started to walk off, realizing he was alone when he looked over his shoulder. He motioned with his chin. His face was turned in, soft, beneath the cap, blonde hair sticking out of each side.

“Are you coming?”  It was a quiet question.

Timothee was still smiling, lifting his body off the car. He followed behind for a bit, watching Ford wander, head tilted up, body in light and then in shadows.

 

**_New York, New York_ **

**_2020_ **

Tim looked around the empty apartment, trying to imagine himself there, living, loving, and having breakfast and dinner here not every day, but most days. He closed his eyes and imagined coming in the door at the end of a day or trip, dropping his things by the kitchen counter, not caring where his shoes ended up because it was all his anyway.

The paperwork sat on the kitchen island, waiting for two signatures, his and Armie’s.  The agent had even brought two pens.

Armie was walking room to room with the realtor, his voice deep and echoing from every space of the apartment, asking all the right questions since he had owned a home before.

Tim leaned up against the wall pretending to listen to the facts, the numbers and the math, but really he was eavesdropping on a conversation he had every right and reason to be a part of. But he wanted to hear it; he wanted to let Armie make the decisions, to guide him, to guide them to where they needed to be. He knew he wouldn’t make a final decision without Tim but right now, he just wanted to hear Armie talk about their future.

 He wanted to hear him use the word _us_ , and mean the two of _them._

Armie and the real estate agent emerged from the back bedrooms and Tim hopped up on the counter, looking over his shoulder at the window, pretending to be completely invested in the view.

“So?” Armie’s voice was closer now and Tim looked over at him. His arms were spread wide.

“What do you think?”

Tim tilted his head and looked back and forth from the realtor to Armie and his lips twitched. He shrugged. He loved it.

“I guess it’s alright.”

Armie’s face fell. “What? What’s wrong with it?”

 The agent shifted in her 6 inch shoes and Tim marveled at how she walked around the city in them without misery. It was his first thought as soon as she introduced herself. That and how there was no way that color blonde came from nature.

He looked up from the impossible stilettos, unable to hide his joy any longer. He hopped off the counter and spread his arms out, mimicking Armie.

“Not a damn thing. Let’s do it.”

Tim felt Armie breathe out and breathe in again, taking in the air he had just given away and using it on a loud, relieved laugh, hands on hips.

“Jesus Christ, you had me scared shitless.”

Tim laughed, shook his head. “I can’t look at another apartment, man. They’re all starting to look the same.”

Armie nodded, but there was something softer in his eyes as he looked at Tim.

Tim understood.

The agent slid the paperwork over to them, a copy for each, and they uncapped the pens, signing their signatures on each copy of the mortgage, Tim taking a deep breath before sketching out the T and then quickly signing the rest of his name.

He looked over at Armie’s handwriting-elegant, easy to read, large. Tim smiled.

Armie pocketed the pen in his shirt but Tim had on a shirt without a silk pocket so he shoved it in his jeans pocket instead. He knew he would keep it forever. He was a collector of all things strange and random, especially when it came to Armie, but this actually meant something.

The agent collected the papers and talked more about next steps but Tim didn’t hear a single word. This time he really was looking around the space and out the window, even walking away from their conversation to stand by it and look out and below, arms folded, satisfied.

He heard the door close and the room felt more instead of less full.

Armie was walking over to him, dragging the two sets of keys across the counter until he was right behind him and he reached around, dangling Tim’s set in front of his face.

Tim’s eyes narrowed, almost crossed, and he snatched them from Armie before anything or anyone could come in and say no, before they could change their minds.

He lifted himself off the ground and put one long leg around Armie’s thigh, then his hip, kissing Armie all up and down his neck, his cheeks, then his lips, deep and wet, Armie laughing at the force, the words unsaid in the exchange.

“Wow, if buying an apartment is all it takes to get you to attack me…” Armie broke away, but Tim grabbed his face on each side, pulling him again, kissing him so he wouldn’t cry, and walking him backwards to the wall until Armie was pressed against it. Armie’s eyes were squeezed shut, his hands needy and desperate on Tim’s back.

Tim finally let go, but still clung to Armie’s collar with both fists.

“Please tell me this is real. Please tell me no one is going to walk in that fucking door and take it all away.”

His eyes were looking Armie’s face all over but it was stoic, gentle stone.

“On my life, Tim, this is real. We may kill each other, but we just bought this fucking apartment.”

Tim titled his head back, and laughed; the sound large in the hollow space. Armie grounded him literally and otherwise.

He turned around, facing away from Armie now, but Armie wrapped his arms around his waist, bent down to rest his head on his shoulder. Tim let his weight fall back against him.

He wouldn’t be deceived by house warming and holiday parties, soft lights and gifts he knew they would never use. Tim knew this was going to be the hardest thing he had ever done in his life and would be so hard at times that he would want to strangle Armie or leave. But he wouldn’t. He needed this. He needed to let Armie steer things, to let him feel things.

And now Armie could be himself, not just shadows and light, hints and peeks under the hood, a corner of the painting, but the entire creation.

~ ~ ~ ~

**_Los Angeles_ **

**_2019_ **

Tim watched as Armie reached over to refill his water glass for him. This was Armie’s thing, a small way he had been showing Tim for years he was a care taker in every sense of the word.

Tim smiled, chin in his hand as he watched the glass fill, eyes hidden behind Gucci sunglasses that Armie hated but also sort of secretly loved.

“What’s so funny?”

They were having brunch outdoors at a café they had figured out no one knew about or at least were not aware they ever went there.

“Do you realize you’ve been filling up my water glasses for 3 years now?”

Armie put the pitcher back down the on the table.

“So what does that make me? Your servant? Your pool boy?”

Tim laughed, clapped his hands over strong coffee and an extra tall orange juice. His hair was long enough to be in a ponytail that sat on top of his head and Armie never stopped giving him shit for it, or tugging at it.

“It makes you a lot of things.”

Armie smiled; cutting into his French toast (Tim made fun of him every time he ordered it), and shoved his mouth full of bread, strawberries and cream.

Tim shook his head.

He was in town for the last bit of promotion on The King, some of the last time he would be able to be out on the west coast until he started rehearsals for his play, _The Inheritance_ , back in New York. This was their life now, trading coasts, tight hugs and whispers in the dark, more phone time than in-person time, one on stage, one up in lights.

Tim would do this as long as he could. He knew they were both exhausted. When they weren’t fucking, they were fighting. Armie hated the company Tim kept, and Tim shot back _I could say the same_ and then silence and then passive likes on Instagram and oddly timed Twitter conversations that Brian poorly tried to conduct whenever things got weird on Tim’s end. Then Armie’s friend of the week texted Tim and Tim ignored them until Armie himself texted or called. He had learned how to wait things out, a silent battle of wills.

But today there was breakfast; there was sunshine, and Armie smiling with cream in the corner of his mouth.

Tim opened his mouth to tell him about it, but his phone buzzed in his lap. He looked down, flipping it around, shielding his eyes to read it.

“I thought we agreed, no phones unless it’s an emergency.”

Tim looked up at Armie, his mouth half-open.

“And how am I supposed to know it’s an emergency unless I read it or answer the phone?”

Armie looked thoughtful as he chewed, wiping his mouth.

“Good point.”  He pointed at Tim’s lap with his fork. “Who is it?”

Tim shook his head. “Just Saoirse, sending me something, probably a book she just finished she knows I won’t read.”

“What? You mean you two don’t just exchange memes and nudes?”

Tim looked up at Armie again.

“I’m joking!”

Tim smiled, and clicked on the link. He had to see what Saoirse sent, it was just the way things were, Armie would have to understand.

Tim looked at his phone for a long time.

Armie stretched his neck trying to see it over the table and against the glare of the sun.

“What? What did she send?”

“A link. With photos.”

Tim took a deep breath and turned the phone around, though he knew his screen was too dark for Armie to read, so Armie took the phone from him, lifting his own sunglasses to scan what was in front of him. 

His jaw twitched. Armie put the phone down on the table and looked across at Tim who was still staring at him, slack jawed, helpless, cold hands in his lap turned upward. 

**_Another Mystery Blonde, this time, HE’S no mystery._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iknowthebattle on Tumblr xx


	4. Seaside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gentle reminder that this is fiction.  
> and thank you for reading. xx

**_New York, New York_ **

**_2020_ **

Tim held his phone to his ear using his shoulder, wiping a dirty spot on the kitchen floor with a sponge that his foot was pushing.

They had not had a chance to buy a mop or hire a cleaning service yet.

“Yeah…I know. I hear ya. I think the best person to really talk about all this with is Armie…I mean in terms of scheduling weekends and summers with the kids...”

Tim was talking to Elizabeth, twirling his finger around the cord that charged his cell phone from the kitchen counter as if it were a land line. He was twirling it around his finger like his Grandmother’s old rotary phone. She had upgraded to a flip phone a few years ago and never looked back.

He nodded as she spoke; walking as far as he could while the phone was still plugged in to close the fridge door with his foot. Armie had left it cracked open. 

“Right, yeah I understand.” He had no idea what to say really, he felt he had no right to make decisions about the kids even though he and Armie lived together now. He wasn’t their Dad, not even their Step-Dad, and even then, what did that mean?

He listened to Elizabeth talk about work and travel for a bit longer, making “ _mmm_ ” sounds and saying “ _oh really?”_ when it was appropriate. He knew she knew he was uncomfortable.  Once he had lived with them, traveled with them, and now _them_ was he and Armie and _they_ , was no longer Elizabeth and Armie, and Tim had no words for her at least right now, so soon.

“I think shooting Armie a text is the best idea, he left about 20 minutes ago,” Tim bit the inside of his jaw and looked around the kitchen. Elizabeth always did take a long time to say goodbye.

He hung up with his thumb and put the phone back down on the counter. He knew Armie’s service was spotty in the subway.

He thought about it for a few seconds before picking up his phone up again and texting Armie with one hand.  He would see it when he got out.

 _< Had no idea what to say to E about H and F and weekends/schedules. I’m bad at this. Sorry> _then a black heart emoji.

~ ~ 

**_Los Angeles_ **

**_2019_ **

Tim’s stomach had been upset for days. He had made sure to drink water and smoothies (this was LA after all, fuck), but no real food. The mere thought made him sick. His cheeks had grown hollow, his face gaunt, and his pants were all baggy again. He hadn’t been this thin in a couple of years.

He lay curled up in a black leather chair now, in a solid glass, see through office he had never been in until today. Brian had sent him there to take a call and meet someone, his _west coast constituent whom he had known for years_ , and Tim had asked if he couldn’t just fly back to New York but Brian said no. Better to stay, than run and hide.

Tim was half-relieved, half-terrified of staying in LA. But he hadn’t seen Armie since the day the article came out, and had only gotten a couple of texts from him, usually late at night when his house was quiet and they were hurried, formal, apologetic.

Now Tim sat here, lay here, ready to hear whatever shit was about to go down, take it all in, and learn his lesson, whatever that may be.

Maybe he could be a theater actor. They were all gay, right?

_Fuck. No._

_Fuck. This._

_This isn’t you. This is them._

He bit his thumb nail bed until it bled, angry for having such a fucked up thought, angry he was here in the first place. His head spun with thoughts; agreeing to obey, flipping over a table, lining up questions he knew no one had an answer to.

He knew Armie was likely doing the same.

 Exhaustion was winning over righteousness and he felt his eyes close, his limbs were heavy, his stomach empty.

He had just started to drift into a nervous sleep when he heard his name called and an apology from the person saying they didn’t know why he had not been taken back right away.

Tim got up; shrugging, flipping his hair back and walking toward whatever bullshit came next. He didn’t make eye contact with whatever assistant was holding the door open for him, just brushed past them and onto the room they pointed to, as sterile as a Doctor’s office. It even smelled like one.

There were three people in the room but Tim could already tell that only one of them would be talking. One took notes, the other sat there, arms crossed on the table, waiting, doing their best to look important.

“Hi, Timothee!” Brian was on speaker phone in the middle of the table. His voice was high-pitched, overly chipper. Tim cringed at the volume, the tone, the entire reason for this meeting.

“Hi Brian, how are you?”

He sat down at a chair on the side of the table, looking at the phone not at the people across from him. His folded his arms on the table too, drumming his long, pale fingers on the opposing elbow. He was overdressed for LA, always over dressed, always too many layers, even sloppy, mismatched layers covering as much skin as possible, but it was never enough to warm his blood, his bones.

Brian took a deep breath. “Yeah…you know, I’ve been better.” Tim could imagine him at his desk in his home office in upstate New York, running a hand through his hair.

“Mmm,” was all Tim could think to say.

“You know this story about you and uh Armie…it’s everywhere…”

“Mmm.”

“It got away from me,” Brian admitted.

Tim his lip. This wasn’t the first time Brian was not in front of something. He always seemed late to the party,  always arriving in time to try and clean up the mess, do damage control after the damage had been done. He didn’t cover his tracks, he was sloppy.

“I see that.”

“But don’t worry. We are going to take care of it, the team in LA,” Tim glanced up at the total strangers across from him and back at the phone. “And here in New York, we got it-“

“Under control,” Tim finished his sentence for him.

He leaned back in his chair, leather of course, on wheels even though it was on a rug so it went nowhere with his barely-there body weight.

“We won’t let this get away from us. Just…don’t talk to anyone. You know what I mean.”

Tim nodded slowly even though Brian couldn’t see it.

Brian had been his manager for years now. He had practically grown up with him, trusted him, he had stood by him through bad decisions and represented people he still looked up to.

But now, there was this. This involved Armie and it wasn’t just a Page Six write up or MTV playing with words like boyfriend and hottest red carpet couple.

 This was a photo of Armie picking Tim at LAX, alone, and Tim leaning over in the passenger’s seat, both of them in shades  and baseball caps after saying and hugging hello, his lips on Armie’s without thinking. He hadn’t been careful. Armie hadn’t been careful. As soon as it happened, they broke apart quickly, smiling and laughing as if it was all one big joke, the ride quiet the rest of the way to Tim’s hotel, just NPR playing, Tim sitting close to the window, scrolling through his entire phone.

Tim’s head spun now. He had no idea what he was supposed to say. Was he sorry? Did he have any excuse? No, Brian knew everything, for better or worse.

Tim didn’t think this was for the worst. But he knew everyone else did. Maybe it was the worst for everyone except him.

He looked at the people across from him, but he was talking to Brian.

“If anyone wants a statement or an interview I’m-“

“Tim, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”  Not a chance to finish. He figured.

“I was just going to say….” Tim’s words came out slowly, carefully planned he realized, over the course of many days, months, years.

“I was just to say that…whatever people want to think is fine by me. And that—“

“Well its one thing to think or assume things when they don’t have the proof in their hands-“

“And that,” Tim soldiered on. “Now that…it’s out there, this photo, I think it’s better to own it.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone.

“What do you mean by own it?” Brian’s voice was tight, trying to remain calm, but clearly inching closer to the phone, moving more than normal.

“I mean…talk about it.”

“To who? Talk about it to who?”

Tim lowered his gaze to the phone and glared at it until it looked like an evil, tiny grey spaceship coming to earth to take him to a new planet, shrinking him down to size.

“To everyone.”

~ ~ ~

**_Grand Cayman Islands_ **

**_2020_ **

Tim set the groceries down on the counter, both arms full of bags, reusable of course, and Armie came in behind him, balancing two bags of his own. He left the sliding door open and dropped his bags next to Tim’s, shoving his sunglasses to the top of his head.

“You were right; Foster’s has everything we could ever possibly want.”

Armie laughed, shaking his head. “I told you.”

Tim had pictured the Cayman Islands as this remote strip of land where you lived off of pineapple and coconut and sunflower seeds, but now its beaches were littered with resorts and tourists so there were all the comforts of home; coffee shops, grocery stores and shopping malls, that is, if you could bother to get off your lounge chair and put down your fruity, overpriced drink.

“I don’t know man, I think I was picturing Lord of the Flies or something,” Tim was sheepish now, actually thinking about baby Armie as a little leader of his tribe on the island, sun-bleached hair,  he could see Armie running at full speed and kicking up sand while the other boys followed his lead.

“Well, it was different when I was growing up here,” Armie admitted pulling out a net full of apples and oranges, and a box of  family size Frosted Flakes that Tim had insisted on getting. Armie had tried to put the box back twice and both times Tim had put it back into the shopping cart, even trying to hide it under the deli meat and cheese.

“It’s nothing but sugar!” Armie moaned.

“And what is wine exactly?” Tim asked casually, pretending to be absorbed in the olive oil selection.

“So I guess this means you’re like, a British citizen or something?” Tim teased, helping him unpack the bags. He put two bags of the coffee in the fridge.

Armie rolled his eyes. “I was born in California, you know that.”  

Tim stood, back against the counter opposite Armie and watched him move about the kitchen in bare feet. He had kicked his shoes off outside. He usually drove bare foot here and it charmed the fuck out of Tim, free and classless all at the same time.

Tim was smiling.

“Can’t forget that,” Tim shoved himself off the counter with both hands and sauntered over to where Armie stood, holding two handfuls of spices, looking up at the cabinet trying to find room for them. They would be used on the 20 steaks Armie had bought and shoved in the freezer.

“You’re California all over,” Tim slipped up behind him, hands on his lower stomach, gliding down, under the elastic waist band of his swim trunks which counted as pants here.

“Sunny,” Tim stood on tip toe to kiss the back of his neck. “Warm,” Another kiss at the top of his spine. “Polluted,” A teasing kiss and nip at the base of his hair and Armie whirled around, empty handed to grab Tim around the waist, pulling their bodies together.

“Don’t you mean dirty,” Armie breathed in the smell right under and behind Tim’s ear and Tim closed his eyes.

“Mmm,” Tim nodded. “That’s exactly what I meant.”

This was truly paradise. Armie and Timmy had a routine separate from their routine in New York. Neither was working, aside from reading scripts and letting the other read and share their thoughts over coffee or in bed at the end of the day. Their time stretched out limitless in front of them while they were here, all but stopping most days.

It was a luxury Tim never imagined he could have and certainly not with Armie.

Now there were breakfasts of fruit and toast (and of course frosted flakes) on the balcony and swims in the pool, in the ocean, at all times of the day. There was lazy reading in the hammock, on the beach, in bed, the doors and windows open at all hours.

While Armie grilled their dinners, Tim would sit in a nearby deck chair, feet propped up on the wooden balcony, letting the sun bake the bottoms of his feet, reading memes aloud to Armie. He would describe the picture and the joke and then the backstory and Armie pretended to laugh even though hearing someone describe a meme and not seeing it was not at all funny. But it amused Tim to no end.

Timmy and Armie barely bothered to get dressed, and when they did they were always without shirts or shoes. Sand was kicked in and stayed in the living room and the laundry room from the back porch and neither of them noticed, let alone bothered to clean it up. The beach just extended into the house, becoming one big island just for them.

Armie had purchased this beach house and the little strip of land around it a few years ago, sick of time shares and resorts. He had gotten old enough to want home to feel like home. He wanted consistent comfort.

“So no room service? Tim had asked playfully when Armie had told him what he had done.

Armie crawled across the bed in Tim’s old apartment in New York, grabbing his hips. His hands went all the way up to the top of his rib cage.

“That all depends on how you define room service…”

Now Timmy and Armie stood in the kitchen, a world away from work, family, Armie holding Tim, the groceries put away and nothing to do but watch the ocean bathe the sand, heavenly déjà vu.

**_San Antonio, Texas_ **

“Thanks so much for coming to Bird Bakery; would you like a copy of your receipt?”

The man shook his head, grabbed his bag of cookies off the counter. Harper beamed and waved goodbye to her billionth customer of the day. She pulled her phone from her front apron pocket. Her shift wasn’t over for another two hours. She put her phone back, blew her bangs she was attempting to grow out of her face. The bakery was an oven, even with the AC on in full blast. But it was July in Texas and nothing as cool for long.

Harper looked around the bakery; all of the customers seemed happy and settled at their tables or on stools for now. There was no line for now, and the lunch rush was thankfully over, so Harper slid her SAT study book out from under the hidey hole she kept it in during her shifts, right below the cash register. She flipped it open to the math section, her least favorite and weakest area. Ford had promised to help her study when he got back from Italy. He loved math, loved numbers and figuring out puzzles. Harper just wanted it all over with so she could get onto the important stuff in life.

Like being and living on her own, maybe with a roommate or two. Hopefully in New York or LA, maybe even Europe, who knows? Sometimes the world felt very small. She had been all over. She knew she was lucky.

Harper was heading into her senior year and had already decided which colleges she was going to apply to. Since Bird had opened in New Orleans, New York and LA, she had ruled out NOLA, but was for sure going to apply to NYU, Columbia, UCLA and maybe a few others.

She had been traveling to work at the other locations during the summers for a few years now. It was her Mother’s strong hope that she would take over the business but Harper had other plans. She had bought an LSAT study guide even though she was only a senior in High School and studied it right alongside her SAT book.

Harper wanted to be a lawyer; maybe environmental law (her family would _love_ that!), hell maybe she would run the EPA one day. It was that or work as an attorney for the ACLU, or maybe the Southern Poverty Law Center. She had a lot of plans, a lot of ideas, but for now, she rang up muffins and cupcake pops and tried to ace all her SAT practice exams in the back of the massive study guide.

The door chimed open, a ding of the dainty bells decorated with lace and ivy wrapped around their silver centers. It had her Mother written all over it.

Harper’s face lit up with pleasure and surprise at the figure walking towards her.

“Dad?”

She quickly pulled off her apron and ran around the counter to fall into his arms, Armie lifting her off the ground in a bear hug.

He was in his mid-40’s now, Harper couldn’t remember the exact number, she just couldn’t keep up; Ford always had to remind her of their parent’s birthdays, and most other special events. There was the infamous _“Yes, Harper Thanksgiving is on a Thursday,”_ conversation last fall that no one in her family let her live down.

Harper stepped back and looked her Father over. “How do you manage to look the exact same you did 10 years ago?”

Armie ran a hand through his hair. He was letting it grow long. His thin beard was mostly gray now, and he smiled down at his daughter, his favorite, but he would never tell anyone.

“Hops, you don’t need to suck up, you’re already in the will.”

Harper rolled her eyes and then grabbed his arm, pulling him down into a chair across from her.

“I thought you were in New York? And then heading to Italy to see Ford? Why didn’t you text me to tell me you were coming?”

 She looked around the bakery suddenly as if remembering where they were.

“Do you want an iced coffee, sweet tea or something?”

Armie smiled at the offer and held up his hands.

_Sweet tea._

“No, no, I’m good sweetheart.” Now Armie looked around the bakery, pulling his chair in closer to the table. He looked serious and Harper’s heart started beating faster, drumming in her ears.

“What is it? Why are you here? Is something wrong with Mom?”

Armie shook his head.

“No, she’s fine Hops.”

Her parents hadn’t been together in years, but still spoke, still remained friends of some sort, even if only for the sake of Harper and her brother. They attended all of their school events together, and even took them on vacation once a year together. This, Harper was sure, was her Mom’s idea but she didn’t totally hate it.

“What is it then? Are you ok?”

Armie took a deep breath. “I wanted to talk to you in person, but didn’t want you to worry.”

“Well, too late for that.” Harper was dead-pan but still unsure how to gauge her Father’s face, his nervous hand movements, flipping his phone case open and shut over and over, his right leg jiggling under the sky blue table top.

“I wanted to let you know what I’m going to Italy to meet up with Ford—“

Harper rolled her eyes again; clearly imbedded in her teenage years.

“I knew that, Dad.”

Armie nodded. “Right, but there’s more to it. Ford is there with Tim.”

Harper blinked, but shrugged. “Uncle Timmy? Okay. I mean…I know he’s been living in Europe for a while now but-“

Armie reached across the table and grabbed her hands in his.

Harper laughed. It was an after school special; her Dad was being so cheesy right now.

He looked at her, wide, pleading eyes that looked wet, but not sad.

“I’m going there to see Ford, and I’m going there to see Tim.”

“Okaaaayyy….” Harper drew the word out forever.  “I would hope you’d see Uncle Timmy, I mean to go all that way…”

Armie’s next words were almost drowned out by the espresso machine whirring at full speed behind the counter and anyone walking by would see Harper remove one hand from her Father’s and cover her mouth with it, hard to read which way the mouth beneath it was twisted or turned.


	5. Time Stands Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gentle reminder this is fiction. xx

**Chapter 5**

**_New York, New York_ **

**_2021_ **

**_3 months later_ **

Tim didn’t expect Armie to get there first, knowing how far uptown the place was and how the subways still confused him even after all these years. Tim was surprised to see him sitting at a booth in the empty bar/restaurant that was once a Locksmith’s shop. He was tapping a wrapped straw on the table, only a glass of water in front of him.

Tim walked in, nodding to the mid-day hostess. He had found his party.

Meeting in the middle of the day was somehow worse than meeting late at night. The day was sunny, so it invited you to be outside, in the park, on a blanket with a book and a hidden plastic water bottle of gin and lemonade, sunglasses and big floppy hats, using a bag as your pillow, inviting passing dogs to stop by for a pet and a happy, casual chat with its owner.

Instead Tim was headed into a dark, empty bar with low playing music, Dave Matthews Band of all things, and Armie nodded, giving a small smile when he saw Tim headed his way.

“Hey there,” Tim breathed, sliding into the booth, hands on the table, fingers splayed.

“Hey.” Armie tapped his straw again on the table, unpeeling the paper from it and sliding it into his water, a former pint glass. The waitress bought Timmy a matching one. He left his straw and glass untouched.

“You wanted to meet?” Tim pushed his hair back, looking directly at Armie. He wasn’t going to make this easy. This may as well be a business lunch as far as Tim was concerned. 45 minutes, in and out, say what needs to be said, shake hands and agree to table whatever didn’t make it into the time allotted.

Armie nodded, took a deep breath.

“I did, I did.”

“Are you gonna eat?” Tim nodded at the menu.

Armie shook his head. “Already ate.”

“So,” Another deep breath from across the table. “I know I left things….quickly.”

Timmy stared at him. _Was this a fucking joke?_

“And it wasn’t fair to you, like, at all.”

Tim clasped his hands under the table, pinching skin until it hurt.

“I know we had been talking about me spending more time in LA…and I guess, in some fucked up way, I thought that was what I was doing, dividing my time.”

“No, you left,” Tim said plainly.

“Right. I did. I’m sorry. I know that is not enough. It will never be enough. I panicked. I needed to see the kids more…and I needed…some sense of…stability.”

“You had that.”

“Yes, I did, in two or three different places…” Armie let the sentence fall away, looking out the window at the bus that had pulled up outside with a groan and a whine.

“So I thought, well…I don’t know what I thought. I guess I wanted to see if I really wanted it in one place again.”

“And you decided LA was that place?”

Armie sighed. “It’s where my kids spend most of their life.”

Tim shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. They don’t. They never have. They go wherever you and Elizabeth go. They grew up in airports and on film sets, behind bakery counters. Don’t give me that, _my kids need roots_ , bullshit. They’re citizens of the world. You wanted it that way, Elizabeth wanted it that way.”

Armie had no idea what to say next, Tim could tell. He had exhausted the script already.

“So how are things in LA?”

Armie laughed. “You don’t give a shit, don’t pretend you do.”

Tim shrugged. “I guess that’s a little true.” A pause. “I care about the kids.” A flicker, a frustrated glare up at Armie. “I care about you.”

Armie’s face softened.

“They’re fine. They miss you.”

“I miss them.” _Obviously_ , Tim thought. _I raised them for over a year with you in our apartment…_

Armie launched into discussion of Harper’s school (private of course, not public), Ford’s favorite way to torture his parents now with a toddler sized go cart that made noises all the time.

Tim listened, genuinely interested in the lives of the kids, but all the while, wanting to get to the root of why they were here. Armie had already done his version of an apology. Now what?

“So. You invited me here to tell me about a go cart?” Tim was tired. The person left behind always had the upper hand. They could be impatient, demanding, bored, whatever they wanted to be when the one who left was squirming across the table from them. It was the worst place of power to be in, a rusted throne and heavy crown.

Armie leaned up until his torso touched the table, arms and hands reaching toward Tim but he didn’t take the bait.

“I wanted to say I am really, truly sorry. I reacted to a series of shitty events, shitty feelings. I didn’t think. I didn’t talk to you enough about it.”

“You didn’t talk about it at all. You just started packing your bags.”

Armie rubbed his temple and forehead with his hands. “You’re right, you’re right. I knew---I know it is temporary.”

“Is it?”

Armie stared at him. “Of course it is. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Tim looked around the bar as if an answer was going to come from another patron or maybe out of thin air.

“So where are you planning on going next?”

Armie’s mouth dropped open, shutting it just as quickly, a few blinks when he realized what Tim meant.

“I guess not here. I guess not with you, from the sound of things.”

Tim looked at the ceiling.

“Armie. You can’t leave me like that and then expect to show up on the door step with your bags, Hops on your hip, Ford waving from between your legs…” Tim’s voice made a strange strangled sound.

“You fucked me _up_ , I felt like I couldn’t fucking breathe for days,” Tim was straining to speak, to keep his voice low and steady.

Armie closed his eyes.

“No, no you don’t get off that easy. Look at me.” Tim waited until Armie opened his eyes again.

“You have to listen to me. A few texts and awkward phone calls over the last few months don’t cut it. I don’t even know if I want a full on explanation because god knows I don’t think you even have one. I think you really did panic.”

Armie swallowed, nodded.

“About being out, I guess, or, living in New York full time with me maybe, I mean, I don’t know Armie. I can’t read your mind.”

“Yes you can,” Armie whispered but Tim pushed forward.

“And it really doesn’t matter does it? Because the end result is the same; you left. You left me. You chose her, you chose LA over me, and you lied to yourself and you lied to me.”

Armie sat up straighter in his seat.

“Hey, wait a fucking minute, when did I lie to you?”

Tim blinked under his New York Mets cap. “The whole time, Armie. You lied the whole time. You said this was it, home with me, us, and the kids. And then you didn’t do what you said you would. You broke…” Tim struggled for the words. He wasn’t afforded the use of vows…but that’s what it felt like.

“You broke your promise. You broke…me.” Tim looked out the same window Armie had sought refuge in moments before.

“You broke _us_.”

Armie’s eyes were unblinking, wet and full.

“It really was supposed to be temporary…Tim.”

Tim was still looking out the window. A mom pushed a crying baby in the stroller, speaking gently to her in Spanish.

“We never had to be the picture perfect family.” Now Tim was looking at him.

“You know I never gave a shit about that. I was fine with you splitting your time, with your kids being with Elizabeth most of the time and you visiting, she’s their Mom. I know it was hard for you, I get it. But I never put expectations on you. I never made you do anything. I _never_ made you choose.”

Tim pushed his pointer finger down on the tale until the tip turned red, angry.

“It was _your_ idea to do what we did. It was _your_ idea to move in together in New York. I could have lived in LA, my life can be picked up and moved.”

“Your family is here,” Armie attempted but Tim shook his head.

“Don’t. You know Pauline has lived in fucking Paris.”

Armie went silent again, knowing the point had been moot to start.

“And so what if I had moved to LA? Am I supposed to believe you still wouldn’t have left?”

“I don’t know what to tell you Tim…what do you want me to say? You’re the one who told Brian you wanted to…not hide anymore.”  Even now Armie’s voice lowered and Tim wanted to reach across the table and throttle him.

“Yeah, about _me_ ,” Tim pointed at himself. “About myself. I just wanted to be fucking honest, whether it involved you or anyone else.”

“But it _did_ involve me, it was my face all over the internet along with yours,” Armie said, weary.

“Fine. But we mutually agreed to do what we did….together.”

“What? You mean come out as a couple?”

Tim hated that Armie said it, thinking it was some sort of victory that he said it before Tim.

“Yes, Armie that we _came out_ as a couple, but also that I was finally able to be myself, beyond love is love is love. I could say…who gives a shit and here’s the proof. I love a man, so what? I’ve loved women, I’ll love women again. It wasn’t just about you. It was about me.”

Armie’s eyes were downcast.

“Was it about you too? Was it about who you are?”

Armie looked at him now.

“I guess it was.”

Tim sat back in his booth, hands helpless in his lap.

“You’re gay, so what?”

Armie scoffed. “Easy for you to say, you’re…” Armie waved in his direction. “Queer, bi, fluid, whatever you’re saying this week.”

Tim rolled his eyes.

“Nice, real nice, Armie.”

“No, I’m serious. Look at you, I mean…”

“You mean what?” Tim felt them heading down a path they should have traveled down years ago but better late than never.

“You mean it was obvious I liked boys so it was easier?”

“Well…”

“First off, it was obvious with you too.”

Armie’s face went ashen. He stared at Tim like a stranger was sitting across from him, speaking a language he didn’t understand, but had known once before, maybe in a past life, a tune once well known, now a small whistle in his throat.

“It doesn’t matter that you’re married or have kids, you realize that don’t you? I know you love Elizabeth. I know you are happy you married her. But what does that change,” Tim leaned across the table and jabbed Armie in his chest with a finger.

“In here?”

Armie touched his lips, running fingers down the sides of his mouth.

“Clearly it didn’t, clearly…things changed when you came along.”

For a moment Timmy went soft. He folded into himself like a paper heart, made with careful small hands.

But this wasn’t news. Things had changed; for both of them, for everyone.

Armie wasn’t some lone fallen solider in a battle that he had created.

“You…don’t get to say your life blew up just because everything around you looked more traditional on the outside.”

“You just said that your life could pick up and move at any time. Well, mine can’t.”  

Tim shook his head, crossing his hands on the table, creating a steeple with his fingers and bringing them to his mouth. It was a form of contemplation, prayer, maybe for his lost soul if such a thing existed.

“But it did. And it will again.”

~ ~ ~

**_Los Angeles_ **

**_2020_ **

Tim watched Armie pace around the greenroom, blowing air out of his cheeks, hands folded behind his head, sometimes resting on his neck, eyes aimed at the ceiling. He would smile at Tim when he noticed he was being watched.

Tim lazily flipped through a magazine on the black IKEA table in front of him. It was _W Magazine_ , huge, and mostly fashion ads, but he liked the crinkle the pages made, new, no one else had looked at it.

They were at another late night show to promote the sequel, but both knew the sequel would be secondary to the things that everyone really wanted to know.

“I wonder if they’ll even ask us about the film, like holy shit the budget must have been _much_ bigger this time around.” Armie was chattering, nervous, now sitting in a chair across the table from Tim, leg wiggling inside his Armani pants.

Tim sniffed, shrugged. He slowly turned a page. “Maybe so.” A beat. “It’s more likely they’ll ask who is on top.”

Another magazine flew towards Tim and almost hit him in the face. He dodged it with a laugh, lobbing it back at Armie. He tossed his hair out of his face but there was no hair to move, it was all muscle memory. His hair was short now; it had been cut for the film at Luca’s request. The sides were slicked back, curls loose and unruly only on the top of his head, 1989 hair. He had even gotten one ear pierced in order to revisit Elio; his old friend, his brother.

Tim played with his ear now, debating letting the skin close, debating letting his hair grow.

“No, but who cares? You know how to turn that shit around,” Tim comforted him.

Armie nodded. “There’s no going back now.”

That much was true.

When the photos of them at LAX broke across sources that actually reported real and true events, Tim had said in print he liked boys with a shrug, barely a blink, _“Isn’t every kid who grows up in New York a little queer or bi? I mean, I went to LaGuardia! Who gives a shit?”_

Then everything was measured by which he liked more, who he had dated more, boys or girls and every magazine had some variation of _Bi Prince, Bi Hero,_ and _The Bisexual King We Need and Deserve_ on its cover and in its pages.

He had worn a crown on the cover of Rolling Stone when _The King_ debuted, proclaiming him Prince Hal, the crown had been tilted on his head, heavy, littered with dead and dying roses, eyeliner and an oversized purple cape on. He had held a scepter with both hands; French and English flags on top between his legs.  Inside that issue, he had licked the scepter. Of course they had used that photo.

Now he was royalty of another variety, a hero.

Armie was of course staged and primed to be the villain. Every good story needed both. Headlines of broken families and adultery littered the newsstands and served as click bait.

Armie hid; Tim flew and flaunted.

Brian did a quiet _I told you so_ song and dance every time a new article demeaning Armie appeared. Finally Tim suggested that if he really wanted to clean things up, why didn’t they just do an interview together, take some photos, give some quotes that a magazine could put in bold and be done with it?

 _“What kills a tragedy better than a love story?”_ Tim had asked to Brian’s blank, silent face.

He had been half-joking, but the next thing he knew he and Armie were scheduled to be interviewed for a Vanity Fair cover story.

Tim had broached the subject to Armie in bed that night; quiet nuzzles against his shoulder and upper arm, a land mine he knew he was stepping into willingly. Armie had been closed up to almost everyone for months, drinking, reading, going for long runs, only showing happiness when Harper and Ford were around.

Tim had given him miles and miles of space, offering him a net if he needed it, but never one to chase, never one to smother.

To his surprise Armie had agreed, rolling over, pushing his hands under Tim to rub his back, warm as always against Tim’s cold skin. Armie ran hot.

“Yes, but let’s talk about it,” he murmured, against Tim’s jaw, under his ear, in a place that sent gentle charges through his nerves, making his eyelids flutter. He had gripped Armie’s back until his nails left crescent shapes on either side of his spine, Armie half in him before he had finished his sentence.

He needed this, everything Tim was offering.

Maybe it was desperation that caused Armie to agree to this interview, maybe he had been driven crazy and wasn’t in his right mind to agree to anything. He spent most days talking to lawyers, in agony thinking about how often he could see his kids, then turning on a dime and spinning around in the kitchen as he cooked, wrapping Tim up in his arms, saying he was so glad everything was out there.

In the end, Tim knew it was Armie’s inability to care what people thought over the long term that caused him to agree to the interview and the photo shoot.

Tim knew Armie saw this as a chance to give the world the middle finger, but also a way to get it all out there and maybe it was a mistake but it was his truth right now and Armie had a problem sitting on how he felt. He had a deep sense of injustice. He liked to rock the boat.

He was prepared to sink the ship now.

Over breakfast the next morning, Tim broached the subject again over waffles, blueberries and strong coffee. He knew after one cup that Armie was more alert but not fully adjusted to being awake, he had not yet found his day to day energy, had not yet had a chance to settle into a certain mood.

“So the shoot….” Tim was pushing a blueberry around a pool of syrup. He looked up at Armie who was cutting into his third waffle.

“Fuck it. Let’s do it.”

Tim laughed; his teeth slightly yellow and sticky from not brushing them yet. “That’s it? That’s your version of talking about it?”

But that was Armie. He made emotional decisions while riding a certain wave, a particular mood and didn’t look back. There was always time to think about it, regret it, or and savor it, on the other side.

The day of, they arrived and stood side by side, nervous laughter, too much coffee and Red Bull while outfits were wheeled out, lights adjusted. Neither of them had slept more than two hours the night before.

Tim selected the music, and felt his body ease when the sounds he loved, the sounds he knew so well filled the studio. He looked up from where he stood in the corner; his phone plugged in, Frank Ocean playing gently and then more and more clear, louder and louder over the Bluetooth speaker.

He saw Armie smile, watching his shoulders relax from across the room.

They sat next to one another in their chairs getting their make-up done, Armie’s groggy, morning voice charming everyone within ear shot, Tim’s wheezing laughter blending in as if hearing the jokes for the first time. It was never too early for dick jokes when Armie Hammer was involved.

Tim knew it was a way of relieving the tension, the unspoken thing in the air. Even though they had already sat down at a bar weeks ago to unspool their story, their own versions of it, tracing back over the last few years with emotional pen and pencil, playful, happy, sad, reflecting on moments that some suspected but never knew.

Tim had been surprised at the dam that seemed to burst inside Armie that day. He found himself sitting back as Armie talked, expressive, hands in front of him, hands touching Tim. Tim had to bow his head a few times to hide his face, collect his own thoughts, and hide, scared to proclaim too much because once he started he may never stop.

The cover ended up being the two of them lying on the blinding white floor on their backs, the photographer on a ladder above them. They lay in opposite directions, heads next to one another, dark, struggling curls and blonde hair that was long enough to lie against Tim’s temple.  Armie was in all black, Tim in all white, and they held hands, fingers interlocked, the other hand on their stomachs.

The photos inside were tender, natural, the two of them on a black couch in the white studio, Armie sitting up, Tim lying down, his head in Armie’s lap, face toward the camera in one shot, then looking up at Armie both of them laughing, barefoot, one of Tim’s legs crossed over the other.

Another photo had been snapped while Armie was getting his hair styled, and Tim was in the background, looking at him, Armie blurry, but Tim in focus, neither aware of something, of everything being captured.

There were shots from the film scattered throughout the 8 page spread, photos of them at premieres and on press tours.

The cover was simple, clean, everything their story wasn’t; its headline, their title being just;

**_No Longer Waiting in Silence._ **


	6. Step Right Up

 

**_Le Chambon sur Lignon_ **

**_2020_ **

Tim had wanted to show Armie he could plan an entire trip without the help of Brian or Pauline. In fact, he barely used the internet, just to book the things he already knew he wanted them to do, the places he wanted them to stay. He used his memory for everything else.

“No hotels,” Tim had said when they were on the plane and Armie had finally asked where the hell they would be sleeping.

“So are we in like a sheep pasture?”

Tim laughed, head back against his seat, arms loose and free on the rests, legs spread apart in his first class seat.

“Yep, that’s exactly it. We’re in a manger.”  Hard R’s, he had been living with Armie too long.

Armie smirked, looking past Tim out the window at the expanse of blue and puffy white below.

“I guess there was no room at the inn.”

Tim made a gagging sound and rolled his eyes.

He could tell Armie was trying to formulate a joke about Tim’s gag reflex (or lack thereof) but couldn’t so he just kept smiling, tipping back his glass of champagne.

So no hotel, and the first place they dropped their bags was a Bed and Breakfast at a cottage out in the middle of vineyards, daffodils and wildflowers. Tim had rented the entire top floor, and the owner let him know the cottage would be empty the days he had booked. Tim was relieved and said _merci, merci,_ over and over again for more than just the ease of booking.

Tim could feel pleasure seeping from Armie’s bones, from his pores as they were driven through town and finally to where they were staying, mountains blanketing their journey, the air soft and quiet.

Armie pointed to everything, long, tanned arm out the window of the back seat of the cab, asking if Tim had been there and if they were going to go there, sounding like Ford with all the questions, not declarations like Harper.

Tim took turns answering Armie in English and speaking to the driver in French, soothing Armie’s curiosity and answering the driver’s questions about the summers he spent here, asking his own questions about what, if anything, had changed.

_No, nothing._

It was every part of himself splayed out in a breezy cab ride. He leaned up to talk to the driver, leaning back and rubbing Armie’s thigh when he spoke to him in English, switching back and forth from language to language, world to world, all of them his.

Even the gravel sounded soft beneath their tires as they pulled up, and Tim waved off the driver with best wishes and a pat on the shoulder over the front seat, hopping out, both of them closing their doors in unison.

They retrieved their luggage from the trunk, two bags each, Tim’s luggage far nicer and more expensive than Armie’s as always.

Armie stood outside as the cab backed out and drove away, just looking. He took a deep breath, turning to look at Tim, sunglasses on the top of his head, eyelids low, lips relaxed.

He was happy. He was being cared for.

Tim nodded towards the cottage. “Let’s get settled.”  His own voice came out quiet, ready.

He walked up the stairs and looked back to see Armie still standing there, looking at his surroundings, unaware Tim had said a word, somehow still vast amongst the scenery.

Everything inside felt small in Armie’s hands; the dainty cups, the fresh towels, the pink and white duvet and pillowcases all seemed to sink and fold under his touch. Armie seemed larger than life, so very American in the dwelling, the owners having to crane their necks up, leaning their bodies forward to greet him with a kiss on each cheek.

Tim’s head was swimming as he watched Armie move around, translating for everyone beyond the casual hello and welcomes they all knew in both tongues.

It was every sort of déjà vu and Tim was full to the brim with bliss, exhaustion so far down on the list it wasn’t even something he registered.

Armie explored new places, people and things by diving right in, and this was no exception. He dropped his bags in one of their rooms, and went straight to the window, towering over the top of it. He opened every window in every room that was theirs and leaned out to get a different angle on the same view, his upper body hanging out like a marble statue on an ancient structure.

The centuries old hard wood floors creaked under his steps, even the lighter ones as he jogged up and down the stairs, talking to Tim and the owners in English and garbled, terrible French.

Tim slid their bags into the corner, opening up the cases and the armoire to hang up the things that would wrinkle while Armie explored. He had learned to prioritize your comfort, to get yourself situated first when you travel, and now even more so. He hung Armie’s shirts with care, lining up his shoes at the bottom of the armoire, turning on the table side lamp for when the sun went down so the room would be filled with warm light when they returned to their room after dinner.

Tim placed a book (a biography of FDR that Armie had already read once) onto the table on the side of the bed he knew Armie would want.

He had learned after living with Armie for a while now, that there was so much he could do to care for himself, little things, and little ways to care for Armie too. Tim had learned this wasn’t indulgent, but all part of caring for someone, adult ways of showing love and affection that seemed trivial and mundane when you’re younger and restless, bored at the thought of anything but sex and secrets.

 He planned on working his way through the catalogue during their time in France. He wanted to show Armie everything and he wanted him to want for nothing. No kids, no meetings, no rehearsal, just fresh bed clothes and pastries that neither of them had to wash or make.

Tim wanted them to have quiet nights, full days, empty wine bottles, and full bellies.

Tim sat down on the edge of the bed, unfolding a map he found in a drawer over his knees. He looked down at it, fingers tracing familiar roads and places, mouth open, smiling at the ads that lined it, ads that oddly seemed like they were more for locals (construction, ambulance services) than visitors.

Armie glided into the room, somehow making his tall body lithe in the space, light and buoyant in the foreign air.

“What in the world are you looking at?”

He plopped himself behind Tim on the bed, his head on Tim’s shoulder looking at the printed map.

“You are _so_ cute, do you know that?”

Tim turned to look at Armie, taking up most of the bed, ten years gone from his face. Tim wondered how that was possible when he didn’t even know him ten years ago.

“Sometimes it’s just nice to see everything laid out in front of you,” Tim defended his old man ways.

 “Mmm…speaking of things lying out in front of you…” Armie pushed Tim down onto the bed by the shoulder, the map falling to the floor and remaining there as it was buried under shirts and shorts and wallets shoved in pockets.

Armie didn’t seem to care if the owners downstairs could hear, maybe he thought they only understood the noises of late afternoon fucking and love making if they were done in French.

Tim smiled against his sticky shoulder, Armie rocking into him, shuddering, Tim knowing he would come long before he did, because he felt free, burden less, hidden away and exposed all at once.

This was exactly how Tim wanted him to feel, that he could be himself, bury his face into Tim’s neck that he could whine and murmur thank you in all different forms which he did over and over. Tim wanted to take care of Armie here, but he wanted to be thanked for it too, wanted the praise, the love, the fucking, the tenderness and he was already getting it in spades.

He was already being worshipped, his body splayed under Armie, kisses everywhere, licks following kisses, sucks following licks and then fingers and more licks until Tim couldn’t see the ceiling above him in focus. He hadn’t done a thing, had barely touched Armie, and he was being pleasured in every way Armie knew he loved, holding him, wringing him out like a well-used, well-loved baby blanket.

That night he took Armie to the butcher shop in the town center to select their meats for the evening, he had insisted he grill dinner for them at the cottage and Tim followed behind, Armie pointing, Tim translating, Tim pinching Armie’s hips on both sides when they went down a narrow aisle alone, standing on tip toes to nuzzle the back of his head, his neck.

Armie watched as the butcher carefully wrapped his selections, and Tim watched Armie, hating the sight of raw meat, a wuss, he knew, since he would eat it later.

Tim knew it had been years since they had been able to casually stroll around a small town square, and they did just that, hand in hand, Tim talking a mile a minute; it was his turn to point and Armie’s turn to listen, to laugh, to nod and mutter understanding, delight at putting more pieces of Tim’s puzzle together.

This was Tim’s way of bringing Armie back in time, into his history, so they could now share it.

The fountain came to life as the sun set, and Armie and Timmy darted between cars, jogging back to the butcher to ask him to hold Armie’s purchases so they could have a drink outside and buy vegetables. They had not planned their evening at all, and here was proof.

But there was no rush as they sat in chairs, legs spread out long and loose in front of them, faces turned upwards, a table of wine between them, fresh peppers, squash and onions at their feet in shopping bags.

“I can’t believe we are actually here,” Armie mused.

Tim looked over at him, taking in his endless body.

“How is that you look comfortable anywhere?”

Armie laughed, full and whole.

“I just take up so much space everyone else looks uncomfortable.”

Tim smiled, shook his head.

“Naw. It’s just you. You just…” A shrug, a look back at the shops across from them, and finally, “You just…look happy.”  

Armie took a deep breath.

“I am.”

He looked at Tim.

“You know I am.” Softer this time.

Tim took him to where he swam at La Plage, and they lay on the grass by the river reading for hours, eventually getting in when their skin was sore and tired from sun.

He showed Armie where he saw movies alone, grateful for the time to think and the cool air. He rattled off a list to Armie of all of the films he had seen at Cinema Scoop and how it was startling to see an American film there with subtitles for the first time, his eyes and ears unsure what to do, but somehow it made him feel homesick. He felt even worse when American films were dubbed, it made his stomach hurt, and he felt himself stretching to the point of being torn between two things that were both him.

He was sure it wasn’t about film at all.

“You were just feeling sensitive,” Armie said, walking away from the cinema arm in arm.

Tim laughed, short, a little bitter. “Like always.”

Armie didn’t have an answer to that, but he pulled Tim in closer, walking in sync and in silence all the way back to the first wine bar they came across.

They got high on their third night there, Armie had somehow smuggled pot into France from New York, and Tim had learned to not ask any questions, to just partake and let Armie do his thing. He was clearly good at it.

They stumbled into town, Armie insisting that he had to have pizza and he had to have it right now, and so Tim led them to La Paillote, nestled across the street from homes similar to the ones Tim had stayed in as a child, a pre-teen, what felt like thousands of years ago now.

“Oh, holy shit T, there’s an entire section on this menu that says _Pizza Raviolis._ Are you….is this….are they serious?” Armie’s red eyes turned to Tim in wonder, so full of hope and excitement that it made Tim burst out laughing, falling over the counter, heaving, but ordering the biggest pizza full of raviolis they had, all of it home made, and they devoured it sitting across the street on the sidewalk, the box between them.

Tim plunked a piece over stuffed ravioli off the top of his slice, popping it into his mouth. He licked his thumb and forefinger slowly and Armie stared openly.

“This was such a good idea,” He groaned.

Armie nodded, finishing up his second slice in one bite.

“I mean…it’s _pasta_ ON a _pizza_!” Tim nearly screeched, howling up at the sky. Armie’s laughter bounced off the buildings and pavement hitting their ears again like a happy sonic boomerang.

“I think this may be the best moment of my life,” Armie was nearly choking on his fourth slice, cheese between teeth as he talked and giggled like a little boy.

Tim sat back on the pavement, grinning, content.

He gave him this. Tim gave him all of this.

Tim and Armie were spoiled the rest of the week, fresh breads and jam and honey for breakfast, and Armie laughing as he understood a few more French words after a few days, and was able to laugh with Tim and their hosts and when he didn’t understand he would still stand and listen, and eat, always eating and drinking and smiling.

Tim watched Armie walk across the vineyard one day and it looked as if he were walking on air, just above the high tresses of grass, carried to Tim by the breeze. He was still looking around in wonder, as if trying to figure out how he got here.

He saw Tim watching and waved.

Tim waved back, a slow hand, a heavy feeling in his throat and behind his eyes.

He had booked an oversize cabin for the rest of their visit, wanting Armie to sink into leather chairs, hot tubs and saunas, surrounded by wooden walls and king sized beds that he could fit into.

 He packed Armie’s favorite cigars and left them next to the wine where he knew they would be easily found.

They unloaded bottles of wine and food onto the counter, Tim running and jumping over the back of the couch to lounge on the plush leather, feet and legs all over the couch.

“Armie!” He called out his name just because he could, just because they were here, in a place he loved, and no one else, so he could say and yell whatever he wanted. The word Armie was echoing all over the giant space but he was long gone, discovering the massive outdoor grill.

 Armie howled his appreciation all the way back inside where Tim was still on the couch and Armie reached down, grabbing Tim under the arms to lift him up, Tim’s legs finding their way around his waist and Armie actually spun around, stopping near a wall to prop Tim against it.

“You’re _crazy,_ ” Tim joked; head back, their mixed laughter dissolving slowly.

“ _I’m_ crazy? What the hell have you done? Look at all this! You’ve lost your mind,” Armie pulled back, teasing, but looking at Tim and nowhere else.

“Seriously though…I can’t believe you-“

Tim put his whole hand over Armie’s mouth.

“Don’t. Don’t say I didn’t have to or really this is too much or you would have been just as happy at a hotel.”

Armie was quiet, Tim’s hand still over his mouth.

“Just…be happy here. Let’s be happy and pretend…that nothing else matters.”

Tim slowly removed his palm from Armie’s lips and expected a playful smack or a manic kiss but all he got was a small nod from Armie, humble, content. Not for the first time, Armie was speechless, a sort of childlike amazement at being treated as if he was something special, something unique, worthy.

**_Vanity Fair cover story (excerpt)_ **

**_2020_ **

**_No Longer Waiting in Silence_ **

_Timothee Chalamet, now 25, still seems older than his years, as if his mind grows at a rate faster than his face and body. Armie Hammer, 33, is just the opposite, a man who has looked 45 since he was 25. He gazes around the studio in childlike wonder as if he hasn’t done this a thousand of these before, but knowing this time, this interview is different. He is joking more than Chalamet who seems restless but happy as they sit down with Vanity Fair for their first and only exclusive interview since those infamous LAX photos._

_VF: So it’s been a year or two since you have-_

_AH: Become professional dog walkers, yep._

_TC: (laughs) No dude, she means-_

_AH: I know what she means!_

_VF: Dog walking aside, you’re based out of New York now, is that right?_

_TC: (nodding) “That’s right, yeah. It…uh…just made the most sense for where we are right now (gestures between himself and Hammer) and you know, it’s where I grew up-_

_VF: Hell’s Kitchen, how could we forget?_

_AH: (laughter) Yes, how could you?! How dare you?!_

_VF: My apologies. And Timothee, you’ve been doing theater in New York which I know you have a background in._

_TC: Absolutely, yeah and the chance to do The Inheritance on Broadway…it’s like…it’s incredible, once in a lifetime opportunity-_

_AH: Until the next opportunity._

_TC: Until the next opportunity!_

_VF: And Armie you had your successful limited run on Broadway a few years back with Straight White Men._

_AH: Yep, it was so much work, but so fun. It was good for me._

_VF: Do you see yourself doing more theater? Or the two of you working together on stage?_

_Both laugh in unison._

_AH: Ah, maybe, but I mean…that’s a lot…I see Timmy every day now, and we just wrapped filming the sequel to Call Me By Your Name so I’m not sure either of us are ready to keep-_

_TC: That would be so much!_

_VF: Understandable. When is the sequel out?_

_TC: Next year._

_VF: So more promotion on top of living together._

_AH: Most people don’t live AND work with their partners. It can put a strain on things for sure._

_VF:  So you said partners, is it safe to say that’s what the two of you are?_

_AH: Safe?_

_TC: (jumps in quickly) Armie and me have been partners in a lot of ways whether as friends, or a working partnership for a long, long time…god, what, 4 years? Why does it seem way longer?_

_AH: Gee, thanks._

_TC: (continues) and so in some ways this is just a natural progression towards…what we have now._

_VF: Which is?_

_TC: Living together. Sharing a life? It’s so much easier this way. We’re both so much….happier now. Not that we weren’t happy before…_

_AH: Exactly._

_VF: Armie, I know you were married-_

_AH: I am married, still._

_TC: And an amazing Father. Truly._

_VF: And the children…_

_AH: Yeah they are good, they’re great. I think probably the focus though-_

_TC: Happy to keep talking about what we were just talking about._

_VF: Did this begin when you filmed Call Me By Your Name in 2016?_

_Both look thoughtful for a while._

_AH: When else would it?_

_TC: Yeah, I mean…_

_Chalamet grows very quiet and thoughtful at this, and Hammer gives him the space to mull over his next words very carefully. It is obvious Hammer is not one to sit and think for very long before speaking, but Chalamet is deliberate and when he does speak; his voice is soft, gentle, but firm._

_TC: It was unlike anything either of us has ever experienced before, and even working on the second film…you can’t go back to that place again, not in the exact same way. Even though the crew was the same, Luca was there, and of course Armie and me…but we traveled more, things were bigger, intimate still but it…it…was more like slipping into a robe you know wears you well. The first time…it was overwhelming, like the feeling you get when you walk into a store you love-_

_AH: You can NOT compare this to shopping. Not this early in the interview! I don’t care if this is Vanity Fair!_

_TC: No, no, okay. Let me just say this. Nothing has come close to that feeling of that first summer, and you don’t expect that to happen to you when you’re 20, 21. You have this idea that this earth shocking moment will hit you when you’re ready, maybe…35? 40? You have all these insane timelines in your head-_

_AH: That life doesn’t give a fuck about._

_TC: Right, exactly, life just fu—happens. And it happened in a big way for me, for us._

_VF: Do you agree?_

_AH: (nods) I didn’t see this coming. And then it was…it was very up and down. Not me and Timmy, but everything else._

_VF: Your life outside of one another?_

_TC: What’s that?_

_AH: (smiling) Yeah, I guess so._

_VF: How did the people in your life take the news of you two being together, what was the reaction of your friends and family when the LAX photos came out?_

_AH: (blows out a long breath) as you can imagine…_

_TC: My sister called me, (Chalamet puts hand up to his ear in a mock phone pose) I can’t believe this is how I find out! Do you even know what you’ve done?! I mean, I KNEW but I didn’t KNOW.  All in French of course, which made it even more hilarious…but it wasn’t really that funny…_

_AH: It was a violation but what can you do?_

_TC: Yeah._

_VF: Armie you’ve talked about your family and your history, I can’t imagine they were exactly thrilled._

_AH: No, I can’t say that that they were._

_TC:  But every time I see Dru, Armie’s Mom, she has been nothing been kind to me._

_AH: Yeah. She doesn’t have a choice._

_VF: And the director, Luca Guadangino, did he have any idea-?_

_AH: (laughs) Luca is a son of a bitch._

_TC: Luca knows all._

_AH: This is all his fault! (a beat) God bless, Luca._

_VF:  And your parents, Timothee? What was their reaction?_

_TC: (Shrugs) I mean…they knew. They’re cool with it, they’re cool with anything. They’ve seen me through a lot of shit-a lot of ups and downs._

_VF: You both use that phrase a lot. Have you felt your lives are unstable until now?_

_AH: Isn’t everyone’s life?_

_TC: Exactly._

_VF: But now there’s some stability, some comfort at least._

_AH: It is nice._

_TC: Every part of our lives feels like it’s on track right now so I’m just reveling in it._

_AH: We aren’t taking anything for granted._

_VF: I know it’s silly to ask if either of you were worried how this might affect your careers-_

_AH: No, we didn’t, everyone else did that for us._

_TC: (shakes head) We’re working more than ever, or just as much and it’s just…we are both so grateful._

_AH: Hopefully we’re proving everyone wrong._

_VF: I would say so. How do the two of you feel day to day?_

_TC: No one has ever asked me that before. Like…in an interview. I’m not sure I know how to answer!_

_AH: I’m good. We’re good._

_TC:  Very good. I’m happy. We’re happy._

_As Chalamet and Hammer exit the studio, it is clear who helps the other stay calm and focused, and the answer is both. Chalamet takes Hammer’s phone and looks with a serious brow what their next appointment for the day is, and whispers, conferring with him, handing his phone back. They walk out of the studio, Hammer’s hand on Chalamet’s back, keeping him steady, making him laugh at some unheard, secret joke._

_Its rare people, humans, balance one another out so well, so evenly, Armie bringing Chalamet’s manic energy that will surely fade with time, back down to earth, and Chalamet helping keep Armie’s head in the clouds, where he can’t take himself too seriously, where he can forget himself and everything for a while, ring masters in the beautiful circus they’ve created._

_All is calm in the center of their storm._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to MN for their tireless research on the region in France where TC grew up. xo


	7. Vergine/Capricorno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End.

_New York, New York_

Harper stood outside, under the shelter of the cafe, heavy panes of rain in front of her, wetting the toes of her red leather cowgirl boots.

She was waiting on her brother and he was running late, as usual. She looked at her watch because it was too gross to take out her phone. She looked up and down the street for the sign of his blonde hair bopping, without an umbrella probably, feet taller than everyone else. He had just arrived back from Italy and it was time to debrief.

He was strolling up 8th Avenue, taking his sweet time as if it wasn’t pouring rain, hands in his pockets, casually walking up to her, a grin on his face.

“Ford, you’re a mess.”

He shrugged up to her, coming in for a deep hug.

“It’s good to see you, sis.”

“Let’s go inside,” she said pulling open the door, Ford holding it so she could enter.

It was too hot inside the diner turned cafe, but it was dry so Harper sank into a booth gratefully, Ford across from her, flagging the waitress, already hungry.

“So,” Harper leaned one arm against the back of the booth. “Italy.”

Ford ordered a milkshake and a burger, Harper a cup of tea and a piece of carrot cake. Ford still had not answered her.

“Ford.”

He looked up from the menu he was still staring at.

“I heard you Hops. I’m just trying to think of what to say. And you know I can’t think on an empty stomach.”

Harper laughed, loud. She knew her brother wasn’t lying.

“Fair enough. But can I ask if you had a good time? What was your favorite city?”

Ford smiled. “It was a lot of fun. And I really liked Rome. I think…yeah, I think Rome was my favorite.”  

“May I ask why? Was it the lovely ladies of Italy perhaps?”

“Psshh..” Ford dismissed his sister’s teasing with a shake of his head. “No, Harper. Not everyone travels the world trying to charm the pants off of everyone, literally.”

“Good point. I mean, you probably didn’t even have to try.”

Ford rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. It was so good to see one another.

The food came and Harper waited all of two minutes, Ford dipping one French fry into the milkshake and taking a bite before she dove right in.

“So, Dad and Uncle Timmy?”

Ford stopped mid-chew, looking at his sister, still holding the half-eaten fry between his fingers.

“Yes. They were there.”

~ ~ ~

_Paris, France_

Pauline waited at the restaurant, pressing the button on her phone to check the time every few minutes. She had just ordered her first glass of wine, a deep red Malbec and settled in to people watch while she waited.

Tim showed up right on time, a few minutes early even, for dinner, bending down to kiss her on each cheek, his hands on her shoulders. His face was cut into deep shadows from the candlelight on the table, making him look twenty again, not a man in his late 30’s.

Tim settled into the seat across from her, smelling of soap and cologne, something he had only started wearing in the last couple of years. It was light and suited him somehow, expensive cologne and a light leather coat with a pink silk lining that he placed on the back of the chair before sitting down.

“You look…”

Tim was smiling, a soft smile, his hands folded on top of the table and he reached out and took one of Pauline’s hands.

“I can’t really describe it,” Pauline said after a few moments. “Happy isn’t quite right…”

Tim shook his head, the light catching the subtle grey near his temples hidden by short curls that spilled over the tip of his ears.

“A lot has happened,” he breathed.

 Pauline nodded.

“It’s been a long time…” her sentence had no end; it didn’t need one, there was not one yet.

Tim nodded, unfolding his napkin under the table, splaying it across his lap under long fingers, looking at his sister across full wine glasses and warm bread.

“It really has. But, I asked you here to talk about exactly that.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.  I haven’t said a word to anyone, Mom or Dad, friends, no one. I wanted to just sit down and talk to you, to actually have a meal with you!” He laughed, smoothing out invisible wrinkles in the cloth napkin on his lap.

“I mean, Jesus. How do we live so close and I hardly ever see you, Paulie?”

Pauline smiled at his childhood nickname for her.

“That’s a good question. I would say that one of us is slightly busier than the other.” Her tone was teasing and loving, but Tim looked hurt, for just a moment, before picking up on her softness and smiling.

“I wish I could just sleep for a year,” he lamented.

Pauline rolled her eyes. They played this game often, the back and forth. Neither of them tired of it until real shit started to happen, and things went sideways, then all games of who is busier doing what and which thing or obligation is most important fell to the wayside, and they were brother and sister again (always) huddled over the hot screen of a phone at all hours, counseling one another, talking, booking plane tickets, making food for one another, always an open door, no questions or all the questions that needed to be asked.

“You’ve been tired since you were 5,” she said as their food was placed on the table.

Both looked over the sparse, but rich spread before them with glowing, hungry eyes.

They laughed in unison at their reverent silence.

“Dig in!” Timmy encouraged.

Pauline laughed, but caught the mark of his wrist tattoo in the candlelight, the sleeve of his plush black turtleneck pulled up just enough to see the letters and numbers that led to somewhere else, someone else, the origin of a love misunderstood, delayed, put on hold for God knows how long.

Pauline picked up her wine glass and motioned for Tim to do the same.

“A toast!” she proclaimed.

Tim was confused but obeyed, and touched his glass with hers.

“Okaaay…” his voice dragged out, high pitched in the same way it had since he was in Middle School.

“Here’s to all things, well…most things being…clearer. Here’s to…”

Tim touched his glass against Pauline’s once more before tipping the edge toward his lips, staining them dark red, teeth coated in red gloss for a moment as he grinned at his sister.

“…Here’s to an end. And…a beginning.”

~~~

**_Crema, Italy_ **

**_Summer 2016_ **

Tim had been sitting on the piano bench so long his ass had gone numb, the notes and bars on the page blurring under weary eyes, but still he continued on, touching the keys softly, banging on them, knowing they could take it, knowing it’s what the piece called for. He was confident enough now to play as loud and hard as he dared.

His teacher sat patiently beside him, counting under his breath, laughing at Tim’s mistakes, and gently guiding him until clunky notes became actual music.

He was playing in bare feet, the way he would have to play for real, with other people around watching, waiting, and he had to get it right. It was like rehearsing dancing while wearing high heels; you had to do it the way you would do it eventually, all the way, no shortcuts.

Tim was playing, head, shoulders and mid-back bent over in concentration, fingers resting and moving over the keys when the door to the rehearsal space opened, no knock, no warning, just the arrival of him.

He turned, felt the teacher turn next to him, both bodies shifting on the old piano bench, but only one of the bodies rose from its place on the aged wood as if he was Lazarus back from the dead, Christ rising from the tomb, Neptune returning from his oceanic slumber.

Tim had half-walked, half-jogged over to him, already pointing back at the piano with his thumb. He looked as if he were hitching a ride, destination unknown.

“Hey uh…oh wow…”  

He was so tall he seemed to be only half on Earth, his head and shoulders in the clouds.

“Tim? Yeah, hey! I’m Armie.”

Tim had nodded in return, even shook his hand _(oh god, they had actually done that)_ and bit his own tongue so he wouldn’t make a corny or silly joke about….what? About his height, their circumstance, about how fucking nuts this all was. Instead a twinge of guilt settled in around him, remembering his piano teacher, still on the bench behind him, the room silent.

“Yeah uh…hey you know I’m right in the middle of…”

“Oh yeah, yeah, no, I can see that, totally.” Armie nodded at the teacher and Tim snatched his hand back, no longer needing to point at the piano and the man sitting with it.

“But maybe after? I mean…I should be wrapping up things here in about half an hour or so?”

Armie had nodded, surveying the room, surveying him top to bottom so quickly Tim had barely noticed.

He would soon learn what Armie did once he entered a room, a new space while keeping a smile on his face the entire time. He took it all in and said everything he was supposed to say, but that day he said so very little, it was a rare moment of patience and acceptance, of observation, not judgement, fear or worry.

Tim watched him go, the two parting ways with some sort of fucked up, mis-matched high five and a promise to meet up after his piano lesson for drinks, maybe dinner.

“I’m sure you already know this, but a bike is the best way to get around here…” Tim let go of what he was trying to say, his words evaporating into the air, going nowhere but Armie understood, caught the words fully formed and whole in his ears.

“I have one outside, how do you think I got here?” A smile, it was not a joke, but a casual attempt at letting him know he had found sort of, kind of, found his way.

They agreed on a place to meet and he was gone just as quickly as he came, with a nod and a booming hello at Tim’s teacher.

It was the teacher who turned back to the music, oblivious as Tim shuffled back over the bench, padding on bare feet to his work place.

There was the ghost of a teenage Bach, a baby Mozart on wrinkled pages, the angel Gabriel lurking a few feet above, broken and peeling on the walls, shaking their heads at him, at them for they knew all too well the journey that was already burnt into metal, blazed into and through wildflowers before them.

It was a road that bent and curved, sometimes heading off past the shoulder where all obvious support awaited, bowing its head to the things that it was no match for, respectful when it came across a willing opponent , a river, a bridge. Their road was warped and it arched in all the right places.

China shops and bulls, sun and moon signs, earth bound lover and romantic guide. But then he had only been a human boy sitting on a painful ancient bench as the horizon stretched behind him through the window, the sound of bike tires on soft gravel peeling away; riding towards the winking sun with one, two glances over a broad shoulder towards his Eastern direction, a curious weather vane.

~ ~ ~

_New York, New York_

_2020_

Armie had been asleep most of the day, but not Tim. Tim had been buzzing around the apartment, cleaning, playing music, running the dishwasher (a dishwasher in a New York apartment, now he knew he was really lucky and making a lot more money), even folding clothes fresh from the dryer when normally he would have tossed them on the bed or onto the back of the desk chair and peeled each piece off, one by one, when he was ready to wear them. It drove Armie crazy.

But today was special. Tonight Luca, Pauline, and all of his New York friends were coming over; Nick and Ash would be there too. Tim could hardly believe it. He had jumped up and down when Armie mentioned the idea to him, unable to contain his excitement at something he didn’t even know he wanted until that moment.

It was a house warming party of sorts, and Tim smiled, the very idea making him feel grown up.

They were ordering food, _“sides only!”_ Armie had practically yelled while Tim scrolled through Yelp, insisting he cook the main course.

“You mean the meat,” Tim said flatly, looking up over the edge of his phone.

“Damn straight.”

So it would be a dinner with a lot of meat and a lot of sides. Tim had let Armie help him select the music, the two of them bent over Tim’s laptop on the kitchen island, bumping one another out of the way to point at the screen, adding songs to a playlist Tim had titled _House Party; Adult Style._

“God, you’re fucking adorable,” Armie had rocked back on his bare heels, watching Tim sort and organize the 250 or so songs with careful fingers on the touch pad and a focused gaze.

“The order is important!” he had insisted and Armie had put his hands up in mock defeat, saying _you’re the boss._ Tim smiled at the screen while Armie padded back to take a nap.

Now Tim stood at the doorway to their bedroom (this was a thing now, something implied in every domestic request; _“Hey can you grab my phone from the bed? Dude, I think I left my IPad on the nightstand in the bedroom, did you see it this morning?”_ ) And then there was the time Armie had brought him breakfast in bed. It had mostly been bacon and flat champagne and it had been perfect.

Tim stood there for a long time, watching Armie sleep on his back, one hand on his stomach, the other above his head, his mouth open just enough for a little bit of air to escape on the exhale. He had kicked the duvet and sheets off until they were only covering his ankles. He was lying in the middle of the bed, no regard for Tim’s space and his favorite fluffy yet firm pillow that half of Armie’s head had confiscated.

One shoulder bumped up against the doorframe, arms crossed, and Tim let himself smile big and broad, proud almost, that the body in the bed belonged to him. He had run the long race; his patience had finally paid off.

Tim didn’t see it as a battle hard fought and won, but others did, and maybe it was exactly that, but he was unable to view it through the lens of paying a price; that would all come with time and age. Maybe the worst part of war was waiting for something, anything to happen and he had done more than his share of that, sitting, lying in the trenches waiting for the smoke to clear so he could crawl out of his foxhole and claim a quiet victory.

He moved away from the door and eased himself down onto the bed, beside Armie, aligning and fitting his body into the creases and empty spaces carved out just for him. He rested his head on Armie’s shoulder and let himself breathe deeply, in and out. He could hear the dishwasher turning, the smell of his cleaning reaching him, lemon and bleach, Armie’s seasoned meat mixing with it.

It reminded Tim of years ago, when his Mom and Grandmother were cooking and taking care of everything in his little world, the smells of food in various stage of being prepared drifting under the door to his bedroom, the peace of the house interrupted by laughs rooms away.

Soon their own rooms would be full of laughter and even more fragrances, Luca’s strong cologne, Pauline’s perfume, vape smoke and curled cigar peelings on the kitchen floor and fire escape.

Armie opened the door the entire night, the same big, _hey!_ Coming out of his mouth each time more people arrived and a deep, brief hug for each and every person. He never seemed to tire of jogging over, shouting over his shoulder, shouting over the music to someone while swinging the door open to one, two, three or more people who greeted him by holding up bottles of wine or store bought pie.

“You cheap mother fucker!” Armie half-joked. He would snatch yet another Sara Lee pound cake out of their hands and toss it on the nearest surface.

Tim floated around the party, _the gathering, the home coming,_ people were calling it all sorts of things and he liked all of them. He liked the feel of the wine or cocktail glass in his hand, something to hold, something to motion and point with when talking to people, people he had known his whole life or half his life or during the most important parts of his life. Each body was a mile marker on his path.

He was nervous at the first knock, it was Ash and Nick of course, the perfect first responders to any party situation and Armie embraced them, picking up Nick and swinging him around the room and Tim’s nerves relaxed. He realized with some sudden, physical clarity that they were no longer walking a tight rope above a crowd of anxious onlookers; they now had a willing and excited audience and the stage was theirs.

Luca hugged him warmly and deeply at first sight, the rest of the room collapsing around them while Armie looked on over Luca’s shoulder, his own face soft and unlined for the first time in months, years.

“Jesus, Luca, I’m so happy you’re here,” was all he could think to say.

 He shook his head as if Luca was a mirage, but there he stood, turning to laugh and talk with Armie now, always more comfortable with Armie and Tim didn’t mind. Their spirits were somehow sewn together, like when Peter Pan could not catch his own shadow so Wendy sewed it on to make sure it stayed put.

 Where Luca gave Tim a garden to grow and tend to, he and Armie shared secret parts of their history, emotional DNA, conjoined twins, Father and son, lover and fighter.

Tim watched them talk for a while before someone pulled him away, a hand touching his elbow, but he looked over his shoulder to make sure they were still there, still real, still laughing and saying things to one another in quiet whispers.

Pauline had way too much wine and began dancing.  She pulled Tim in to her own self-made dance floor which slowly began to fill, once the food was mostly gone, even the bounty of steak, chicken and ribs.

Tim danced with his sister, slow, fast, twirling, turning her around, laughing, sighing against her shoulder, more and more bodies joining them on the makeshift dance floor. Someone had pushed back the couch and end tables; the empty space was full in no time.

Tim realized at some point during the impromptu dance that  Armie was holding him, passed off, given away by Pauline to him, sort of dancing, sort of talking to whoever was close by, his arms wrapped around Tim’s waist from behind at first, then facing him.

Neither knew what to do with their hands at first, but Tim let himself fold into Armie, head on shoulder,  his hands on Armie’s back, barely making an impression against the endless stretch of muscle and cotton.

Tim opened his eyes to see Armie’s hand on his hip, his sleeve pulled up to his elbow. There was his tattoo, on the other wrist, the coordinates belonging to Tim, belonging to the city where they danced now, on a make-believe dance floor, in a made-up situation, at the end of a hurried party, a pretend wedding.

There was no cake, no vows, no rings, no best man, priest or rabbi and Armie had branded himself with love before but Tim felt he was in a holy place all the same. He didn’t have to voice it, but the people around them were stand-ins for all those things, those titles and names that made up a ceremony, all there bearing witness to this, to them.

~ ~ ~

**_Rome, Italy_ **

Ford had walked into the restaurant first, and Armie’s face brightened, falling when it seemed he was alone, working hard not to show his disappointment because he was happy to see his son after his being in Europe for almost a month.

Armie waved him over, standing to greet him in a big bear hug, smashing Ford’s face against the side of his neck.

“Hey Dad, wow, I hope I have my kidneys still,” Ford teased patting his stomach, sitting down across the table. He had been shopping. He was wearing a brand new Armani navy blazer with dark brown fitted pants and brown leather shoes, a white dress shirt underneath.  Silver aviator sunglasses hung from his blazer pocket. He looked grown-up, sharp.

Armie laughed, staring at his son. His hair was getting darker with each year, his face longer, eyes bluer. He was almost as tall as him now.

“So, how was Italy been treating you?” Armie held in a breath, scared the answer would be _I hate it, it’s boring_ or more likely, the typical teenage response… _fine_.

Ford nodded, rubbing his hands together under the table.

“It’s…actually _pretty_ fucking amazing. You were right.”

Armie let out the breath he had been holding, putting his hands on the table, relief flooding his joints, his bones.

“I’m so happy to hear that. Truly. That’s….that means a lot to me.”  He almost said _thank you_ , but for what?

_For everything. For being here. For wanting to come here. For loving it, for appreciating it._

He leaned across the table and clasped the side of Ford’s face in his hand and for once he wasn’t pushed away.

“I know it’s crazy, but this place feels like home to me...just as much, hell maybe more than Texas or the Islands…” He sat back in his seat, shaking his head.

Ford nodded.             

“I know, Dad. Uncle Timmy and I talked.”

Armie did not attempt to hide anything on his face.

“I know you were supposed to meet up with him. I’m glad you did.”

“I did.”

“And you stayed at Luca’s?”

“I did.”

Armie was holding his breath again. Should he keep asking questions? Ford was staring at him. Was he going to ask questions? Did he have any idea how nervous Armie had been the entire flight over? Did he have any idea how terrified Armie was right now?

“And so did…”

Ford stopped him, a hand reaching across the table to pat his hand, once, twice; as soft as a teenage boy could manage.

“Dad. Chill. You look like you’re about to cry or pass out, and I don’t want you to do either. I can’t carry you out of here in my new clothes. Plus, you weigh a ton.”

Armie laughed, wet eyes staring at the ceiling. He shook his head again. He seemed to cry more and more as the years passed. He had been told this would happen and those people were right.

“So you knew?”

Ford shrugged, and then nodded.

“Yeah. Harper too. We always knew.”

“Course you did.” Armie wiped at his eyes. He took a deep breath; it shook in the back of his throat and on his lips.

“There is a lot I want to know,” Ford blurted out.

Armie nodded. “Sure, of course, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Fire away. We have all night.”

Ford smirked.

“Yeah, we do.”

But instead of laying into him, Ford stood, cracking his knuckles and pushed his chair in. Armie’s heart stopped. Maybe he really wasn’t okay with this, maybe the lies had finally caught up with him; maybe this was goodbye. Armie gripped the edge of the table.

“But I have to take a raincheck.”

Armie started to stand, started to say something, anything to stop him, but Ford had already turned to go, passing another figure that was just coming into the restaurant, shaking off a dark grey umbrella in the entrance, his profile caught in candlelight, tiny silver hairs buried in the short curls near his ears, one restless black curl long enough to hang down onto a forehead, over an eye.

The umbrella passed hands and the figure kissed Ford once on each cheek, touching him on the shoulder, familiar.  Ford made his exit, popping open the umbrella on the front stoop and standing, staring inside the restaurant for a long time.

Armie moved his gaze from his son to the figure walking towards him, long strides, looking at no one, nothing else but Armie.

He started to stand, but felt his knees go weak under the table so he sat helpless, paralyzed, waiting.

Armie looked down, away from the gaze tracking him to see numbers and letters inked across a still frail wrist. He had no idea why his mind went here but as he stared at the tattoo he imagined the same boy, man now, living his life, in a different time, years and years ago, where that ink would be a mark of the beast, a curse and cause for shame, making him a prisoner here in his adopted country. Now it was and it had been from the start, an expression, a symbol of connection, loyalty…but then…. _then…_

And now.

Tim stood in front of and above him, eyes and mouth gentle.

“Armie.”  His voice was rough but quiet, well acquainted with that name on his tongue, working its way out from behind his teeth.

Armie reached up, taking the marked wrist and bringing it to his mouth. He closed his eyes, laying the underside of Tim’s wrist against his lips.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he murmured, eyes opening slowly, half-expecting this to be a dream, for Tim to be gone.

Tim smiled.

“Sixteen years and you still can’t believe that I’m standing right next to you.”

Armie closed his eyes again and laced his fingers with Tim’s. He looked at him fully, without hesitation.

“There’s no turning back now,” Armie whispered.

Tim nodded; his voice just as soft. “You’ve brought me too far for that.”

~ ~ ~

**_New York, New York_ **

“Wait, so you knew this whole time that Dad was going to Italy to see Uncle Timmy and you didn’t _tell_ me?”

Harper held up her hands. “Dad told me not to tell you! He came by the bakery one day…”

Ford rolled his eyes. “Hops, the favorite as always!”

Harper jabbed her brother on the shoulder. “You know that’s only true most of the time.”

Ford laughed, wiped his mouth free of chocolate milkshake with a cheap napkin.

“But seriously, did they think we didn’t know? I mean sure Dad stopped living with Uncle Timmy when we were really young but all those years…those trips…the holidays with the two of them…”

“The two sequels,” Harper said quietly. “Things were _always_ different when they worked together.”

“And when Mom and Dad split…”

They looked at one another across the tiny café table, settling in their collective history, the only two who would ever truly know what it felt like to be here now and to be back there, then.

Harper sniffed and nodded to the window.

“Look what the cat dragged in.”

Ford turned around in the booth to see a dark grey umbrella lowered in front of the café window, two half-drenched bodies behind it.

Tim shook off the rain, folding it and letting it hang from his wrist as they stepped in from the outside, looking around the cramped space. His Father was talking, in mid-conversation as always.

He turned back to his sister.

“You invited them?”

Harper shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Hops! Ford!” Their Father’s voice boomed over to where they sat, followed by Tim’s laugh, deepened somewhat with age, but still wheezy, full, childlike.

Ford raised an eyebrow to his sister.

“Scoot over, this booth is big enough for four,” Armie insisted.

He bumped Ford aside, Tim settling in beside Harper.

Ford caught Harper’s eye, her face glowing and curious. His Father felt big, wiser, and comfortable beside him.

 He looked at Tim who was looking at Armie, laughing, hand on his stomach; cheeks flush from the humid rain, the other arm around Harper in greeting, the best of themselves, all of themselves here, now and there, then.

FIN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who came along on this journey with me and for those who were so patient and so supportive and didn't look away when you wanted to. Your support has meant more to me than I can say as I've worked through this story full of ups and downs. I am so proud of this piece.  
> I hope this ending served you well.  
> xx


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